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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26860675">marked me like a bloodstain</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/newromanticcs/pseuds/newromanticcs'>newromanticcs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adult Peter Parker, Evidently the Author‘s Working Through Something Here, M/M, Resurrection, Slow Burn, Trigger Warning: Depressive Ideation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:55:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>40,073</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26860675</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/newromanticcs/pseuds/newromanticcs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s strange, falling in love with someone after they’re gone. If there is a support group, Peter has yet to find one.</p><p>Or: Peter picks up a smoking habit. As far as coping mechanisms go, it's far from his worst vice. And then, Tony comes back.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Parker/Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>221</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the smell of smoke would hang around this long</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The street light in front of his apartment is flickering, leaving the sidewalk in a hazy, low level darkness. Peter can just about make out the steps to his right. The rest of the street is wrapped in a thick coat of black - a darkness that is unique to the city, where the smog-thick sky is devoid of stars and where the cinderblock houses tower so high that the light won’t pass between them. It’s become his personal hide away, this twilight spot right next to the stairs. The only place, he finds, that is irrevocably his. Here, time doesn’t pass.</p><p> </p><p>Granted, it might be a little literal. He reckons, bemusedly, that Michelle would call him out on his subpar, sloppy imagery. <em>Some flicker lights for liminality? A broken bulb and suddenly, the minutes stop? How very original, Peter,</em> she deadpans in his head. But Michelle isn’t here, and they do. The minutes <em>do</em> stop. They pass him by and he remains unmoved, in the only spot, it seems, the unrelenting, brutal flow of time and space is blind to, and he is unwitnessed and <em>undone</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe Peter’s projecting a lot onto this little patch of concrete. He can see that. Really, he can. But god, he is twenty-one years old and he’s seen enough for a life time, has lost enough to be allowed a little melodrama, some uninspired imagery. He’d died and then come back. And then Tony had died, and hadn’t. Most nights, he startles awake to the taste of blood and ash in his mouth, the echo of a name lodged in his throat choking him. He spends his days perpetually hunched over, with a mind that’s frayed and feverish, his thoughts wrapped in clouds of smoke. He can never seem to grasp them before they turn to ember. It’s a good fucking feeling, this: His edges bleeding into the sidewalk, fading into the fucking air around him, where no one wants anything from him and he can let his wildfire brain melt the bones off of him. Sue him.</p><p> </p><p>Back in Cambridge he’s found his nowhere places: Tucked away, pathetically, between the sink and wall in the communal bathroom of his dorm, the world cut down to a space his body will barely fold itself into, just him and then nothing, sweet, sweet nothing to take in. Trains going nowhere in the night, seats empty and lights dimmed, only him and the same old drunks, rambling on about nothing in particular, their hasty, slurred words like prayers to absent neon gods. But back in New York, where his home is still the same tiny apartment he’dlived in for years, there had been nowhere to hide. Not in his room, that is his, sure, but that is permeated by the sense of being shared by watchful, worried eyes he can’t keep trying to soothe because he is raw and restless and he’s got nothing fucking left to give. Peter knows he’s wrecked - it’s not hard to figure out. He’s got enough baggage for a life time and it’s not even the kind you can read up on, not really, and he’s twenty-one in a body that is barely human with a fire hazard head and it’s like the world’s just a little off-centre, like someone moved it over just a notch and now he can’t fucking fit anywhere anymore, is reduced to a garish, grotesque twin shadow of his former self.</p><p> </p><p>Peter is a scientist. Believes in Psychology enough to know that these are trauma responses, he does. And he isn’t one for most mystical thinking, but god, it feels like something had gone wrong when he’d come back. Like his particles don’t fit together quite right anymore. And now he’s just a little too rotten to be the Peter Parker he should be, at twenty-one.</p><p> </p><p>So he plays the part, because he might be half-feral most of the time, but he isn’t <em>cruel </em>and he knows May can barely stand what’s happened to him when he puts on a front and he can’t break her heart. He can’t. The way he sees it, he’s been forever changed. It’s not a question of fault, but fact: Peter can no longer make himself fit into this world. There’s nothing left to salvage: This is no longer his life. His had ended when he’d died. (Maybe, and he won’t let himself think this in the light, not when <em>he </em>had died. Maybe later.) Perhaps this is how things must go: He’s living off of time that isn’t his, and maybe when you rip out the fabric of reality to make something you weren’t supposed to, it can never be quite right. Maybe no one, not even Tony Stark, can truly bend the universe to their will. The space he’d carved for him - perhaps it can only ever be this, a makeshift mirror world. So if his only fucking purpose is nothing more than not to take the people who love him down with him, then so be it. But sue him if he needs a secret spot to shed his skin<em>. </em>It’s not as depressing as it sounds, honestly. It all just is. Peter isn’t miserable. He’s just barely there. And admitting it is the only way he can make sure his body won’t suddenly burst open with the ugly, foaming truth, the only way to ensure his weary bones will take him through the days. So when May’s fallen asleep he comes down here, fishing the little ziplock bag from under a plant pot, a tattered pack of cigarettes and a small red lighter inside.</p><p> </p><p>Peter hadn’t meant to start smoking. Honestly, he realizes it’s an odd habit to get into for a twenty something at MIT. The nerds he knows don’t smoke. Sure, sugar’s their poison of choice, at best, caffeine, perhaps, or Adderall, to keep up - some even smoke weed religiously, to shut down their haywire brains. Oddly enough, it’s all fairly logical. Performance-enhancing. Cigarettes are none of the above, so they don’t go. It’s a habit he’s sure enough would be better suited for someone like Michelle, talking Sartre and Derrida over wine and some smokes with her classmates at Columbia. He’s shared one with her, once or twice before, when they hung out over break, her eyebrows raised in question. But she hasn’t asked and he’s been glad for it. If anyone might understand, it would be her, he figures. Maybe it would even be okay. He’s come close, to saying it out loud: How everything’s both so fucking hard and so pointless, how he sometimes wishes he’d never come back. But for all her gruff exterior, Michelle genuinely cares. Now, she even looks at him, the worry clear and sympathetic in her eyes. So he hasn’t. Won’t. Because how can he explain? That he’s so glad he has them, really, that he’d come back and live for them again and again, he would, and it’s not like he’s the dangerous kind of desperate, like he’ll hurt himself. His desperation is an acid thing inside, burning and burning and burning its way through his blood at a pace so agonizingly slow it almost feels mocking. And so what if sometimes, he sits on roofs and sees himself falling, watches the train roll into the station and sees himself stepping forward. So what if he wants to put his head through bus windows until there’s blood and glass everywhere. It’s just these little pains he’ll allow himself. It’s soothing - pain in moderation. It is, he thinks, the reason he started smoking at all. A little bad he’ll allow. And if he stands outside for hours, chain smoking one after the other, restless to light the next before he’s finished with the other, then who needs to know about some harmless controlled annihilation?</p><p> </p><p>Sure, the smoking’s bad. It’s still far from the most unhealthy habit he’s picked up. There’s lying to May, his friends, sure, but that’s not new. It’s not what makes him sick with guilt, his skin light up with white hot shame. He’s not sure what Tony would say to this, being Peter’s Top One vice. Perhaps he’d appreciate the irony. But god. Tony singlehandedly unearthed the fucking fabric of reality, the nature of time, solved the unsolvable riddle, rendered thousands of years of philosophy effectively useless - for him. To bring him back. And this isn’t some fucking sleek nanotech, not some fancy new invention to show off at the next expo. It’s a paradigm shift of epic proportions, the start of a new age, and it’s irrevocably changed all there is to know about well, everything. Tony had answered an unanswerable question - for him. And that’s just the thing, isn’t it? Tony had looked behind the veil and found what never should have been found, like a fucking platonian prophet, he’d eaten the apple and he’d paid the fucking price. Tony Stark had died to bring him back. </p><p> </p><p>Peter remembers when Pepper had told him, a resolute dignity to the taut stretch of her shoulders, her determined gaze. He hadn’t known then, but he does now. It’s grief turned routine that turns your spine to stone, steels your stomach. It’s tragedy that keeps on striking, and striking, long after the fact, keeps eating away at you with each pitying look and each question until you have no choice but to adapt or die. Sometimes, he thinks, bitterly, that Pepper had learned this lesson long before he did, because she’d had to. Maybe this is what it takes, to be with Tony. To be the one beside him, watching him almost kill himself again and again, and again, just to finally succeed. Pepper had sat on her expensive couch, handed him a mug of tea, and smiled at him so kindly it had made him want to bawl right there, and told him about how Tony’d been done, had decided the fate of the world ought to finally rest on someone else’s shoulders. But how he’d stopped and looked at that picture of the two of them, and found a way that very same night. It had been a sucker punch of a revelation. <em>So,</em> he’d asked, and his voice hadn’t stopped shaking<em>, it’s me?</em> Thought,<em> I’m the reason he’s dead? I’m the one who tore your family apart?</em> Pepper had sighed, and taken his hands in hers, her fiery hair falling around their bowed heads like a curtain. „Peter, no. Listen. You are part of this family. That’s the point. If you’re to blame, so am I. I told him to go for it, Pete. Because whether we like it or not, Tony was who he was, and we love him for that. And who he was is a stubborn, restless man with too much to prove and a god complex only to be rivaled by his guilt complex. And ultimately, a good man. A difficult man to be with, I’ll admit. But the best man I’ve ever known. If the roles had been reversed, and you’d found a way to bring him back, would you have been able to ever rest if you hadn’t tried?“</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sometimes, Peter hates Tony for it. But mostly, he doesn’t. Things would be easier, if he did, that much he lets himself think. But be it age or weariness: Peter is tired of lying to himself about the man. If there’d been a point to it once, there no longer is. Tony is dead and gone. Ashes to ashes, and all that. Yes, Peter had worshipped the ground he walked on once, all blind faith. And there had been that stupid crush, all fantasy, not fact. And yes, some nights he’d spent too long staring at his hands and eyes, heat creeping in his spine. Had burned the memory of mumbled curses into his brain, replaying. And he had loved him, innocently, brightly, the more he’d seen him, truly. Had seen him careless, vicious, selfish. Had witnessed him, his final moments, seen the light leave his eyes. Tony couldn’t live with Peter dead and so Peter had had to watch him die. It is the cruelest thing anyone has ever done to him, and still, he loves him, he loves him, he loves him, and there’s no innocence left to it.</p><p> </p><p>So it’s this, his most vicious vice: He pictures it, the life they could have lived.</p><p> </p><p>Peter isn’t naive. He understands now what kind of man would have gotten involved with a fifteen year-old, no matter how differently he may have seen it then. Knows, too, and the thought makes his chest burn with a fiery certainty, that Tony Stark had not been that kind of man. But there’d been something, alright: The easy friendship. Nights spent at the lab, their brains working in perfect fucking sync. He’s gotten to grow into a Peter that could have had a real fucking thing with Tony. He’s certain of it, and that one hurts the most: Peter knows that Tony loved him, he must have. Not in the way Peter aches for him, now. But he might have, one day. They’ll never get to find out.</p><p> </p><p>So yes, he’s bitter. So awfully bitter that he never got to have a relationship with Tony where he wasn’t his mentee, was no longer a kid with a hero complex. When he’d gotten a taste of adulthood and relationships that broke right through the dream like seal of teenage attraction, juvenile fantasy. When Tony could’ve looked at him and seen his friend, his equal, the man he’d become, and loved him, whichever way. Perhaps even the way Peter loves him. Tony with his brilliant mind, the kind, kind eyes, the lazy jokes and all his faults and failings. He could’ve loved him for a life time. But there is no outcome in which they make it, none where they meet: It’s zeroes and ones. One’s dead if the other lives. And still he knows that there’s a place out there where they could’ve been something sacred and good, feels it in his bones - an eden, their elysian fields - but none of their paths could’ve led them there.</p><p> </p><p>It’s strange, falling in love with someone after they’re gone. If there is a support group, Peter has yet to find one. He doesn’t know how to explain it, other than: He’d wanted Tony in the strange, irreal way you do at fifteen, where all wanting is so goddamn hypothetical. When it’s firmly located in a forever limbo, a sickly sweet infinite stretch. Anything’s possible when you’re fifteen, because resolution is entirely besides the point. But Peter had gotten to know Tony. Had spent hours in his lab, being listened to like he had something to say. Easy comfort, movie nights and pizza dinners - and he’d loved him like he loves Ned and May and how he’d loved Ben, simple and clean. And those two had co-existed, parallel to one another, never crossing. And maybe it could’ve stayed that way. But here’s the thing about parallels: They don’t touch until they do, and they do, they <em>do. </em>It’s Mathematics: They never touch and at infinity, they do. They can’t, until they have to - in some unimaginable, perhaps purely theoretical place. And Peter is no Aristotle, but god, it’s not hard for him to think. That when Tony had cracked open the matter that makes reality, he’d gone and turned the purely potential actual. That they’d reached infinity at last.</p><p> </p><p>Even then, it hadn’t been instant. Peter was wild with grief in the months that followed. He couldn’t stop to think of why. And even then, raised from the dead, he’d still been a kid in all the ways that counted. But something had been set in motion. He has no illusions about this: He’d always been a little too old for his age. Losing his parents, then Uncle Ben, the money troubles May had tried her hardest to shield him from - he hadn’t ever been carefree, hadn’t stepped into this world of superheroes and apocalypses unscathed and unscarred. But this, their final battle, losing Tony - it had been a demarcation, had split it all right in two. Before and after. After, he found himself at a loss for words when hanging out with his friends. Found himself indifferent to all the things he’d lost sleep over, before. A weight had been put atop his shoulders, then. And he’d known, instantly, that he’d never put it down again. That its shape would be pressed into his frame always, bones aching with phantom pain. Oddly, it had made it easier to admit it to himself. He’d never be the same again. So what if he’d gone and fallen in love with the one person who might look at him and <em>see him</em>, <em>truly,</em> through shared shaking hands, their mirror image nightmares? It seems almost predictably mundane, against it all, to think: I love him. Because, well, of course. How could he not?</p><p> </p><p>And he can see it, now: He could have loved him, truly - achingly, burningly - but truly, feet planted firmly atop pedestals smashed to ruins. Illusions turned to smoke that lingers, still. And it could have been good. Messy, and complicated, because it all is, now, but good, the way it ultimately is: To be seen for what one really is, however wrecked and wretched and wicked, and being loved, not despite, but because of it.</p><p> </p><p>So sometimes, when he feels hollow with how lonely he is, he’ll let himself beg, feverishly, prayers going nowhere, bargains with nothing to trade: Come on, Tony. Just one last miracle. Over time, the words turn wooden. Still, he holds onto some tiny, blind-faith piece of hope. Doesn’t even know he is doing it, until his phone lights up with a text from Strange, and his heart stops: <em>Think we cracked it. Come to the sanctum, now. Might be bringing Stark home tonight.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi y'all! This thing has been swimming around in my head for far too long, so I've taken up actually writing it down. Hope you enjoy - I'll be updating this biweekly (hopefully! but we're optimistic as of now).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. running like water</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Later, Peter won’t remember how exactly he got to the sanctum. Won’t recall any of the way there, only that he read that text and took off, without a second‘s pause. He thinks, distantly, barely aware of his body through the adrenaline fueled haze he’s in, until he stills and looks up at the crowd gathered in the foyer, that it must have rained. He’s drenched. His clothes cling to his body, wrapping him up in a weight he finds strangely comforting, grounding. He needs it, the grounding. Of course he’d known that there had been talks, in the beginning, of bringing Tony back. But if there have been any recent efforts, he’s been unaware of them. Maybe, this should make him angry. He doesn’t have it in himself, though. Not now. Not when he can already feel that desperate hope twist up in his chest. Not when he’s already passed joy and landed right back at despair, in the minutes he’s known they might have found a way. Because here’s the thing: Peter knows, with certainty, that it will kill him - if they can‘t. There’s retreating into dreamscape worlds inside his head, torturing himself with all that might have been, and then there’s believing, for even just one second, that it could still be, only to have it taken away again. Maybe that’s why no one told him, he muses, dragging his burning eyes over the remaining Avengers gathered in Bleeckerstreet. Steve, who looks at him with such pity in his kind, indigo eyes, that Peter can’t breathe past the wave of shame he’s hit with, for a second. He knows, of course. For all the disruption and chaos of the past years, the Avengers have managed to pull themselves back together. Peter has caught himself spinning venomous tales in his head about the why of it one too many times: Figures, he’d thought, at that first team meeting after, after everything you put him through, he had to die for you to see reason. He’s hoped, in weaker moments, that they feel guilty. It’s mostly selfish, the wish - there is, after all, more than enough guilt to go around. Peter would like to share some of it, at least. They’re a good team - or they try to be. These days, he wonders, that’s all one can do, anyway, isn’t it? So they’d seen, when he’d come over after, tearing through Tony’s notes, his archives, had seen him weep inside the room that had been his, had seen him lose his mind, the guilt, the shame. He doesn’t think all of them know, not really. Steve, of course, too familiar with loss and shame and complicated loves, does. He’d seen right through Peter. At the time, he’d been too wrecked to care. Wanda is too wise not to know. But she’s a lot better about it than Steve is: Her eyes are unreadable, calm and detached. She knows a thing or two about the kind of pain that eats you alive, and having it broadcasted and on display, helpless to contain it, powerless to escape those knowing gazes. He wonders who else has been in on it. Bruce, odds of his involvement aside, looks genuinely puzzled. With the others - Clint, Thor, Scott and Hope, Rhodey - he can’t tell. There’s no bone in him that could believe they’d been cruel enough to have told Rhodey. Rhodey, who’s been so tired and so weary for the past five years. The hope, Peter thinks, would’ve killed him just the same. Other than that: He doesn’t know. Finds, that he doesn’t care all that much. </p><p>He hugs Rhodey first. „I don’t understand, how…?“ But Rhodey just shakes his head, eyes brimming with almost tears. „I don’t know, kid, I don’t. Just - you know more about these things than I do. Do you think-„ But he stops himself. Before he can ask. Peter hugs him again, a little tighter, this time. As if to say: <em>I know, I know</em>. And he does. It’s wanting to know and not being able to bear the answer. A feeling Peter has wallowed in for the better part of five years. A feeling that has him weak in the knees, now. When he lets go, Rhodey wipes at his eyes frantically. Peter touches his arm, once more, then goes to greet the others. He’s tugged under Wanda’s arm, the hand on his chest clutched in his own, knuckles white, when Strange appears, rumpled, hazy, but determined. His eyes land on Peter. „Parker, good. We’ll need you for this.“</p><p><br/>
Peter realizes, belatedly: Pepper isn’t here. She’s with Morgan, he is told. It’s not that she doesn’t care - it’s about not getting Morgan’s hopes up, Wanda explained. That is, if it didn’t work. If it does, she’ll take the head start: How do you explain to your kid that their dead dad is back, when he’s been gone for half your life? Peter understands, he does. But he worries. If this works, if - won’t Tony want her to be there? Won’t he be confused? </p><p>As it turns out, there’s little room to think at all. Strange explains exactly nothing to them. Peter is too anxious to think of a single thing to ask, too impatient. He needs this to be over with. He needs to stop hoping as soon as he can. He’ll pay for this, later. For all the seconds spent hoping, he’ll have to pay in pain. With every passing moment, he risks raking up a debt he won’t be able to repay. He wants Strange to wave his hands and chant his spells, wants him to rip the fucking bandaid off, and also doesn’t. He wants to live right here, alive in this ache, this desire, forever stuck in motion - wants that insidious spark inside to burn on eternally, craves it, that cursed, blissful little speck of hope. But then, they begin.</p><p>Time seems to slow down to a heavy drip. Seconds drag on too slowly for Peter to comprehend. He sees without understanding. None of it registers. There’s lights, flickers, and surely, Strange is making sounds, the way his mouth is moving, but Peter - Peter doesn’t hear a thing, except a high pitched ringing in his ears, his heartbeat, double time and out of synch with the slow stretch of time around him. It’s disorienting, and for a moment, Peter thinks - this is it. I’ve finally gone crazy. Then, Wanda snaps him out of it with a hand on his arm. „Peter, it’s time.“ And so Peter does as he’s been told. He thinks of coal like eyes, that whiskey voice, those late nights at the lab, the touches, thinks of hands on his back, of hands holding him together when he’d turned to dust, of what he’d give to have him back, and it’s only then that Peter realizes that he’s crying, ugly and sincere, his throat raw, and he thinks all the desperate thoughts he has to offer - there’s a lot - and it pushes the air out from his lungs, and Peter thinks, <em>oh god, if this won’t work, I can’t, I won’t</em>, and then, there’s one last burst of light, before they’re plunged into darkness. Peter doesn’t need his spider senses to know, even in the pitch black room, who’s standing in front of him. The noise he hears himself make is inhuman, feral, like a wounded animal gearing up for one last, pathetic strike, and he lunges forward, clutching his arms around Tony’s neck, sobbing, begging: „Oh god, Tony, please be real. Oh god. Oh god, fuck, Tony, I -“ He can barely hear the others over his own crying, can’t even see with how his vision blurs from the tears streaking down his face, and then, none of it matters. Tony Stark buries his face in Peter’s hair and wraps his arms around him in return, and god - the minutes stop. </p><p>Peter stumbles back, the realization making him shudder. Suddenly, he can’t be here. Can’t look at Tony, can’t touch him, not now, or ever again. His head keeps ringing, keeps taunting him with his own prophecy like a chant -<em> you'll pay for this, later. Peter, you know you'll pay</em>. And he doesn't want to, doesn't have anything left to give, and he knows if he stays, he'll never leave of his own volition. It's too familiar, this treacherous sense of victory. He knows better than to trust it, knows better than to think he's won. Last time he did, it had all been taken away within seconds, and what's that thing about violent delights coming to violent ends? He can't be around when his luck turns, this time. So - he runs, wet soles creaking on the tiled floors, the sidewalk. This time, he knows how he gets home. He sprints, all the way, until even his enhanced lungs feel as though they are about to burst.</p><p>It’s raining when Tony finds him on the steps, cigarette in hand. He gives a defeated smile as a greeting, and then sits down. It’s an odd picture: Tony Stark in Jeans and a Led Zeppelin Shirt against the grey Queens sky, timid and apologetic, and most of all, alive. Peter wonders, for a moment, if he'd been wearing these clothes, before, where he got them from. But then Tony lands on the step below Peter’s, eyes squinting up at him. His clothes are soaked through, his hair wet and curly and plastered to his head. If he didn’t know better, Peter would think he walked here. „Got one to spare?“, he asks, looking out onto the water pooling in the street, a steady stream that almost grazes the edge of the sidewalk. Peter scoffs, a little disbelieving. „Kinda thought you’d give me hell for this, Mr. Stark.“ His lips curl up in one corner. „Yes well, I don’t exactly have a leg to stand on, now, do I?“ He places his elbows on the step behind him, leaning back, his right arm slotting between Peter’s legs. „Besides,“ he says, turning again to look at Peter, and his eyes are dark and deep and unreadable, „Who am I to tell you anything, anymore?“ It’s an admission, or maybe a question, and it makes Peter so obscenely sad he can’t find a single word to say. He hands him a smoke and lighter, instead. Almost drops both - his hands are shaking. Tony is here. Here, alive, and here, with him, when he should be trying to wrap his head around how his wife was now engaged to someone else, how his daughter had been five when he’d closed his eyes and ten when he opened them, just hours ago. Tony should be trying to make sense of the world he woke up to, right now, and yet, here he is, with Peter. Like there’s nothing else. </p><p>„Mr. Stark,“ he says, and his voice is thin, hoarse. Tony is here. He’s right here, flesh and blood, and Peter loves him. He can’t stop himself, then. He needs to touch, to make sure he hasn’t gone mad, gotten lost in a daydream that he can’t remember dreaming, so he leans forward and puts his head on the older man’s shoulder, and there it is: Flesh on flesh, and if this doesn’t prove that it’s real, Peter thinks, deliriously, he’ll gladly disappear into the dream, because he can feel Tony relax at the contact, letting out a breath he’s been holding, and he puts his hand on Peters head in is hair like it’s nothing, like those hands on him don’t burn holes into Peter’s reality, and just keeps smoking his cigarette. Later, Peter will climb the stairs in his soaking wet clothes and smell the smoke on them mixed with something so distinctly Tony that he weeps. He sleeps through the night.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. playing hide and seek and giving me your weekends</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He wakes up to a text from Tony, and it feels like the ground’s turning beneath his feet for a moment. Tony is back. Peter can text him, like it’s not a big deal, like touching the man hadn’t felt like someone had burned a hole into the fabric of reality. It’s overwhelming in a way that makes him unsure if he wants to laugh or scream. All he knows is that for the first time in a very long time, he feels not a dull ache, impassive, detached, but something big and urgent and impossible for his frame to contain. Instead of texting back, he flops down on his mattress, staring at the ceiling, and dials Tony’s number.</p>
<p>The phone rings just once. „Well, Pete, color me surprised. I was under the impression your generation was all about avoiding phone calls.“ His voice is quiet, warm. Peter can feel it trickle down his spine like honey. It makes him a little stupid, and he realizes a beat too late what he’s about to say: „It’s been so long since I heard your voice, so. Figured I’d call.“ It’s quiet for a moment, and Peter can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, can tell his face warming. But it’s true. He’s missed that fucking voice for five whole years. „We did speak yesterday, in case the whole ordeal was too forgettable.“ Peter scoffs, and it hangs in the air. He thinks, hopes, savagely, that maybe Tony understands. That after everything, he’ll never have heard it enough. Will never again hear it soon enough „I’m just kidding, kid. I get it. It’s good to hear yours, too. Really,“ he clears his throat, almost sheepish. „Which kind of brings us to the point of this. I thought maybe you’d want to help an old man out. I’m sort of moving into a new place today. I could use a semi-human young adult without back problems to help out.“ „No offense, Mr. Stark, but unless Pepper has acquired a rather extensive gambling habit and lost all of Stark Industries’ money, I’d say there’s no way you haven’t hired people to do that.“ „You know, Parker, you used to be a lot less snarky around me. But you’re right. I’m lying, all the stuff’s here already. I just wanted to see you.“ Peter’s out the door and on his way barely half an hour later. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tonys new place is surprising in many ways - the first of them being the location. Peter had expected a slinky town house in Manhattan, at least a shiny new penthouse somewhere on the East Side. Instead, Tony sends him to a Bushwick address. He takes the stairs to the second floor of the unassuming house on Cornelia Street. It’s a beautiful, if aged, pre-WWII building - high ceilings, hardwood floors, crown moulding in every room. The apartment itself is, and Peter can hardly believe he is associating the word with <em>Tony,</em> sort of - modest. Sure, it’s a spacious, well-kept 3 bedroom with big, beautiful windows that make it light and airy. It’s probably more than most of New York’s not-so-eligible Bachelors can afford. But it’s surely a lot less than Tony can. Immediately, Peter loves it.</p>
<p>When they’d met, there’d been flashy tech-giant Tony Stark, heir, mogul, Forbes’ list number one, and then just Tony, whose jokes were corny at best, but sincere, who’d cared so much it had swallowed him up, warm and kind, and human. To Peter, there’d been nothing <em>just</em> about that Tony. It’s that Tony he wants to have come back, the one he is under all the bluster.</p>
<p>The man’s played pretend enough for a life time or two. It’s only fair he shouldn’t have to, anymore, the second time around. So it’s good to see, at first glance, that Tony intends to truly make a home of this. Not a symbol, a warning, shiny, sleek and saccharine. Just a home, in all the ways that counts. Peter suspects, that there is nothing <em>just</em> about that to Tony, either. Decides, that he deserves one, more than anyone he’s ever known. He’d seen glimpses of what home had meant to Tony in the years that Peter had been gone, in that small house upstate: Composting and pictures up on wooden shelves. He’s certain Tony is going to give the space a tech-once-over, but it is, for all intents and purposes, the New York City equivalent of a chic, yet simple cabin upstate. It is, in short, a place that feels right for the Tony that he’d fallen in love with.</p>
<p>He looks like him, too: His hair is still damp and curling around the edges. It takes more than Peter would willingly admit to resist the sudden urge to run his fingers through the strands. Gone are the suits: Tony is wearing an old faded college sweater that might just be his own over a pair of black jeans, and well, Peter appreciates a man in a good suit as much as the next boy, really, he does, but it’s this Tony that’s always been his favorite: The one under the overproduced image. It’s the Tony Peter’d seen himself with, in an apartment not unlike this, going on bodega runs at 2 am, hunched over a tricky design, or waking up with to go get coffee. It’s a lot. Seeing him in this place. Knowing, undoubtedly, that he’s here to stay. Suddenly it’s hard to swallow around the burn in his chest. So he opts for a joke. He’s learned from the best, after all: „Mr. Stark, are you, you know,“ he lowers his voice, leans in conspicously, eyes wide open, considers crossing himself, but dismisses the idea - <em>too much, probably</em> - „renting?“ The laugh he gets is short, blunt, and accompanied by an eye roll. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They spent the next few hours half-heartedly unpacking some boxes that, if Peter had to guess, he’d say Pepper packed up - judging by the way there is an actual, intuitive order to them. He’s halfway through a box full of sentimental knick knacks, when he finds picture frames: Several old family pictures of people he assumes Tony is related to. Some with Happy, Morgan, Rhodey, and then, there’s him and Mr. Stark, grinning into the camera. Before he can regain his composure, Tony walks over, one hand coming to rest on his shoulder. The other he places gingerly on the top right corner of the wooden frame, his thumb stroking over the glass as if to wipe away some invisible dust. Neither of them speaks, and Tony might as well have his hand on his heart, so tender is the look he gives it. „Used to have this one up in the kitchen. Morgan always asked about you, you know, before,“ he makes a vague gesture, as if to say, you know, the wholedying and returning thing, „all that. But I hear you’ve met.“ Peter nods, turning his head to his right, until he’s facing Tony, whose head is still bent over his shoulder. He knows. God, does he know. Does Tony? Know, that Peter knows this is what did it? That this is the picture that left the world made anew, a catalyst for cosmic change.</p>
<p>He wonders, not for the first time, what Tony had seen in it, right before. What it had meant. Thinks of things men have gone to war for, have died over. It’s never small things, is it? Never anything lukewarm. Something burning, something savage. First questions type of things. Things of metaphysics. Finding his voice takes him a try or two, then: „She’s a fantastic kid. A lot like you, I think. That could be tough, sometimes, actually. You know, before,“ he wiggles his brows, imitating the miserable attempt at nonchalance, „all that.“</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Peter and Tony are out on the street somewhere near Peter‘s neighborhood, weeks later, coffees in hand, when he makes sense of it: Theres something brutal to it, the heights of the thing he feels for Tony. Something untamed and unspeakable, a light too bright, too blinding for the naked eye. It makes him a little light headed. The heights and depths of it, woven deeply, intricately tied to something deep within his body. He‘d known of course, that this love was a wildfire thing, long before Tony had come back. Had sifted through the charred ground it left behind for something solid, something to hold onto, long before. But now, with the object of this desire right in front of him, it’s something visceral and violent. Those eyes are a gut punch, a bullet to the chest. He feels cut open to the bone, like that voice took razor blades to his skin and sinews. For the first time, it occurs to him: This isn’t that place he‘d built in his mind. And he can feel its walls tumbling, those dreamt up stones giving way under Tony‘s touch. It’s unnerving: He‘d never planned for them to come true. Fears, suddenly, that whatever‘s stepped out of his dreams right into the bustling Queens streets might be the stuff of nightmares. It makes him feel dirty, has the shame come alive in chest like a pulse, a wound, reopened. He finds himself in shop windows, storefront mirrors and sees the ugliest of him reflected right back. He‘d sworn to himself that if they ever got another chance, it would be enough. Whatever may come of it, would be enough. But courage of conviction is an easy feat when it‘s all hypothetical. What if it isn’t enough? What if Peter wants and wants, and Tony does too, wants to stay, and gets to, and still, they go nowhere at all? If they get it all right, and still, they don‘t meet, not even here. He thinks, mind feverish yet again, that they might just have reached and left behind infinity, just to end up on the other side of it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’d been safety in believing Tony was gone. His return, however miraculous, this stuff of prophecies, has blown the realm of possibility wide open. And now he‘s stumbling blindly in the dark, like he‘d stumbled through space after, off compass, arms stretched wide, his destination clear, and no way to know if his aimless efforts were getting him any closer, or further away, until it was fully out of reach, never to be found. Going somewhere and not knowing, never knowing, until his heart gives out, if he‘ll get there. Thinks that this, too, would be his undoing. Knowing only at the end, that he hadn’t, with no idea of if he ever got close at all. As much as he craves that gaze on him, he fears it, too, fears for this kingdom, coming undone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Still, he hugs Tony tight, when they part. Replays the voice message he’d been sent after a quick got home safe text again and again, until he feels like a man possessed, a faithless man returned to god, repenting. They pick a couch together, and Peter wants to kiss him stupid on it until the minutes stop. They get take out and Peter tells him all about his thesis over dim sum. He feels seven feet tall when Tony bounces ideas off of him he’s considered already, wants to bottle up that pride in Tony’s eyes, but takes too big a gulp of beer, instead. He helps Tony pick out a present for Morgan’s birthday - a real one, one that’s good, not just expensive, and the look the lady behind the register gives them is so fond that Peter thinks he might die to hold Tony’s hand, to be just what she thinks they are. Another night, they get drunk on cheap bodega wine and smoke by Tony’s window over a game of cards, and Tony’s laughter makes himself at home deep in his gut. He’s drunk and hard as hell when he gets home. Oh and one time, Tony says goodbye to him by the door, crowding into his space, pressing a pair of keys into his palm with a mumbled - „In case I’m out when you come over.“ - and a quick, dry kiss to his cheek. Peter practically skips down the street, and cries like a child over a cigarette down by the steps. (Three.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He gets it. He does. The danger of it, of searching for salvation in someone else‘s hands. It terrifies him, this urge to climb into Tony‘s body and make a home for himself there, the way his eyes on him ease the ache in him and break his bones anew. Maybe it’s his lesson to learn, to want but not need, like oxygen. It seems impossible to fathom, a world where he could lose this again, and not have it take all the air with it. But that‘s just it, isn’t it? It’s highest highs and lowest lows. He‘s ecstatic, elated, thrilled and it horrifies him. He wants to pull the man closer, all the time, to bury himself in the quiet of his mind when those hands are on him, and wants to run as fast as his feet will take him, all the same. He‘s still restless, bones itching, still stuck at a crossroads, unmoving and frozen in time, with no idea of how to break himself out of this standstill.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Peter is aware that this is something he’ll have to deal with, and deal with soon. He does. Instead, he gets high. They‘re at MJ‘s place, Ned and him and Aurora, Michelle‘s beautiful, poised roommate who he is fairly certain MJ has a - well, a something with. He is yet to hear anything official from her, but he can hardly blame her, whatever might be simmering under the surface there. Aurora is a bit of an apparition, honestly. With copper skin and a voice like some old time starlet, smokey and soothing, her sharp tongue disguised by a pleasant, unassuming tone, lulling and luring. Peter thinks, dazedly, thoughts twirling in his head like the milk in the tea she‘s holding between her hands, that listening to her feels, decidedly, like the calm before the storm, a kiss before a strike. She’s terrifying. Peter loves her, already. Aurora is the one who brought the weed after Peter called. Peter‘s head is too slow to get ahold of the thought that passes his mind, then. But it feels oddly strategic, that, there for a second. But his mind is spinning, and there’s two texts from Tony, ignored, sitting on his home screen on his phone, stuffed purposely deep into a jacket pocket. He doesn't want to think about it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He doesn't. He does talk about it, though, tongue loosened by the joint between his lips. „How insane is that?“ He finishes his rant, too high and too far removed from his buzzing body to feel the shame of vulnerability he‘s sure must be wreaking havoc in there, right now, too high to let it stop him, to let himself be tripped up by the words that keep tumbling out of his mouth. Surely, it’s good he’s sharing with his friends. He just can’t dwell on it without freaking out. Clearly, it's all perfectly healthy. For a long, impossibly long, moment, it‘s silent in the small room. Peter thinks he might be able to hear the walls shift. MJ is staring at him with that gaze that makes him feel naked, found out. He doesn’t meet it. But he can sense her eyes on him, stripping him bare. Still, it’s Aurora who chimes in: „It’s not, really. Sorry if I‘m overstepping here, Peter, but - it‘s not. It’s kind of textbook, actually.“ Peter frowns, and stays still. Follows the string of fairy lights Michelle has hung over her bed from one end to the other. They keep swimming, moving. It makes him feel a little sick. Finally, when he feels like his skin is stretched too taut in anticipation, when his eyes start to swim, he asks: „Textbook?“ „Yes, Peter. Textbook. Look, I know you‘ve had it tough. And granted, the stuff you‘ve been through was pretty extraordinary. But trauma is trauma, Peter. Humans aren’t all that complicated. The mechanisms are the same, no matter the specifics of their origin. With your history, it‘s - well, it‘s pretty much the sanest thing in the world to develop coping mechanisms to keep you from reliving those moments.“ Peter blinks, sits up from where he‘d been sprawled out on MJ‘s comforter. Neither of his friends is looking at him. Ned is carefully avoiding his gaze, fumbling with a blanket in his lap. He isn’t fooling anyone. MJ isn’t trying to, at all. Is purposely less subtle about it, studying her nails in the low lighting as though they‘re suddenly terribly interesting. Coping mechanisms. But - it doesn’t feel like he’s coping. Rather, it seems like he can’t stop himself from turning anything good into something sinister, seeing monsters where there’s just shadows, like he keeps digging to strike dirt. He tells her as much. At this, Aurora smiles. It‘s oddly comforting, a hug after a slap. „We outgrow them. Over time, they stop serving us, hinder us from growing further, even. Because they‘re for ensuring survival. Not growth.“ Peter draws a long, unsteady breath. „Okay,“ he rasps, throat suddenly dry. „Okay. How do I let them go, then?“ „Well, you have to want to, first of all.“ Another slap. He wants to. How could he not, he does - doesn’t he? But she goes on, still: „It’s not easy. There’s security in not trying, you know. And then, it’s forcing yourself to act as though you aren’t, you know, afraid. Give the world a chance to prove all your worst fears wrong. Your best shot, honestly? Talk to a therapist, Peter. Preferably one who isn’t still in training.“ At that, she winks, and leansback in her chair. And that‘s that. Ned asks her about her internship at the children‘s hospital, and MJ joins in to call out her false modesty, retelling a story about her and some grieving kid she‘d really started to get through to, despite her practical inexperience. Peter smiles. MJ is beaming with pride, and he‘s inclined to think she has every right to be. Aurora, he‘s sure, will make a phenomenal therapist.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He calls Tony on the way home. „Hi, you,“ comes a deep, soft mumble on the other end. „Everything alright?“ Peter nods, stupidly, then remembers that Tony can’t see him. Fuck. He isn’t high enough anymore to be this fucking flustered. „Hi yourself. Just - do you want to hang out?“ „You mean take advantage of the fact that neither of us has a curfew, these days?“ „Something like that, yeah. We could watch the show I’ve been telling you about.“ They do. Watch episode after episode, until Peter passes out on the couch, and wakes, the next morning, with a pillow under his head and a blanket draped over him, carefully, softly. There’s a note on the coffee table. <em>Getting breakfast. Help yourself to some coffee and clothes. Pepper called, we’re taking Morgan to see a movie. Wouldn’t want you to have to do your walk of shame in front of her.</em> It’s a joke, a jab at how Peter slept in his clothes like a one time thing with an overstayed welcome, he reminds himself. This is just Tony’s borderline juvenile humor. Still: The insinuation leaves him hot under his sweatshirt collar. He doesn’t think of leaving Tony’s in last night’s clothes in a vastly different context, as he climbs in the shower. Doesn’t imagine not showering alone, here, using Tony’s shampoo, the scent of him surrounding him. And he doesn’t smell the shirt he’s taking, bunching it up, nose buried deep, before putting it on. Before sitting on the couch they picked, together. <em>Fuck</em>. So by the time Tony returns, Peter hasn’t dreamt up a million little fantasies involving him <em>sleeping over</em>. Honestly. And the way his heart is beating? That has nothing to do with how domestic it all is, how at home he’s allowed to feel at Tony’s place. How he thinks, in a daze, that no one else spends time here like he does: As frequently, as casually. As naturally.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi to everyone! It's been so encouraging to see the positive response this has received. Thank you so much! In case it's not clear, yet: All titles so far are taken from Taylor Swift's cardigan. There's some sublime imagery in that song. I'm actually thinking of providing you guys with a playlist of songs I think encompass what I'm trying to do here. But maybe that's just me trying to over-explain. Let me know what you think. Thanks for the love, children.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. tried to change the ending, peter losing wendy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peter’s got a handful of a ten year-old clutching his left and a giant, fluffy pillow occupying his right hand and most of field of vision. Morgan keeps tugging him off in alternating directions, excitedly loading the cart with more and more knick knacks. If there’s a theme to them, a concept they’re adhering to, here, it’s lost on Peter. It’s - loud, mostly. Expensive, too. It has been eye-opening, to say the least, seeing the kid gravitate towards the most expensive, somewhat useless items like a moth to a flame, without a fail. If they were to blindfold her and set her loose, she’d undoubtedly be able to make out the high end options by nothing but their apparent magnetism. He wonders if there’s an occupation for that kind of uncanny, inborn sort of gift. Maybe she could sniff out fakes one day. A look over at Tony, obliviously pushing an overflowing cart, tells him everything he needs to know. The shameless joy at his daughter’s antics is written all over his face. He swivels around to Peter, and his expression turns downright mischievous, a true Cheshire Cat smile. As if to say: Her father’s daughter, huh? Her father’s daughter, indeed. And to think Peter’d always been a believer in nurture over nature.</p><p> </p><p>At checkout, Peter dares to ask. Morgan furrows her brows, her little face concentrated and solemn, and again, she’s her father’s daughter, isn’t she? A mind just a little too serious, too relentless for anything but perfect accuracy under all that boisterous, frivolous fun. All he’d asked was: So, what’s the common theme here? Peter almost feels bad, risks a glance towards Tony, who waves him off, calming. And then, Morgan seems to have finished running analytics in her head, focuses her dad with a stare, and says: „We just like pretty things.“ And the way Tony barks out a laugh, but more so how he turns to Peter, and that glint in his eye that maybe feels a little reckless, and says, shrugging, „Well, we do,“ has goosebumps spread out over Peter’s skin.</p><p> </p><p>Something cold, thick and wet hits Peter’s cheek. He turns, slowly, menacingly, as paint drips down from his cheek onto the shirt he’s borrowed. Tony’s face is the epitome of innocence, as he raises his hand to his mouth. „Oops. My hand must’ve slipped, here, let me -“ And before Peter can stop him, he’s smeared the blotch of paint all over his chin and neck. So, he rises to the challenge. „Why, thank you, Tony, how very kind of you, here - let me thank you, properly,“ and he chases Tony through the room, catching him by the waist as he stumbles over a box, trips, wrapping his arms around his middle, only to rub his face against his cheek like a cat. Tony’s pathetic attempts at wriggling himself free are nothing against Peter’s superhuman strength. „Okay, okay, jesus, kid - truce. Truce, stop.“ And Peter ceases his fire, but holds on just for a second longer. Tony swallows. It’s Morgan who interrupts them: „Hey, no messing around. You’re supposed to be painting.“ Her tone is stern, commanding. Her mother’s daughter, too, evidently. Tony nods, hands raised in surrender. „Our ruler is firm, but she is just,“ Peter deadpans, and Tony does a thing with his hand that seems to mean: Don’t I know it.</p><p> </p><p>Despite her complaints, they’ve come quite far already. Under her watchful gaze, they’ve almost finished the back wall of what will be her bedroom in Tony’s apartment. She’d chosen a deep, dark green that’s regal, intense. It makes him think of mountaintop forests, dark and eerie, where the trees are untouched by light. He’s never been one for dark places. To him, it’s the kind of space that’s akin to his very own twilight places. A place where sad things go. Perhaps that’s the kid from Queens in him. He finds peace in solitude amongst the crowds, likes the distraction of the noise and tremor of the city. Twilight places aren’t for peace, for him. They’re where you go to let yourself die, a little. And sure, there’s a kind of serenity, in that. In surrender. It’s addictive, too, it is. Maybe that’s the problem. Each time he lets himself, he fears he won’t ever want to stop. It feels like a bad thing, now. The possibility of letting it eat him whole. But here he goes again with the overprojection. For Morgan, this is home. That cabin upstate, those lightless places. It’s her before: Before her life had been marred by loss. „It reminds me of the woods,“ she said, when they’d chosen it. He tries to find something in the way she eyes the paint, something to go by. What he doesn’t find in hers, he finds in Tony’s, who’s looking at her. He looks pained and tired and so fucking guilty Peter wants to hold him tight enough so he won’t come undone. Knows, that he’s thinking it: It’s her paradise lost, an innocence gone.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t ask. He does wonder what Tony sees in it. What kind of peace Tony had found, in that wooden house upstate, those years in-between. It feels important. To know. To know what he’d ripped Tony from. Surrender or serenity. If he’d been a disruption or a purpose, reclaimed. He wants to ask and doesn’t, wants to dig it up and bury it, all at once, this thing he knows is in the room with them. Wonders what he looks at Peter with. If it’s regret.</p><p> </p><p>They’re watching Morgan organize her new bookshelf, all her trinkets and toys neatly organized. Her model of the Millennium Falcon gets an especially prominent spot. Peter smiles at that. It had been a gift. He hadn’t bought a new one, but given her his old one. Had figured the gift was more them putting it together together, anyway. The speed with which she’d been able to assemble the parts had been astounding, her cockiness disarming. Had made him miss Tony with such a fervor he’d had to excuse himself to sob in the bathroom, a little. It doesn’t escape Tony’s notice, either. Whatever hopes Peter’d had of them getting through the evening unscathed vanishes at Tony’s facial expression. „Feels like you weren’t even that much older, when I left.“ Peter swallows. „I was, though. I really, really was.“ And Tony all but winces at that, and Peter is hit with the sense that he’s steered them off-track and now they’re free falling, spinning out of control. He watches it happen, can tell even before Tony speaks, how he’s buried himself in self-loathing in a matter of seconds. „No, I know. Had to be, didn’t you. I guess that’s on me.“ Peter wants him to stop talking, wants him to <em>shut up already</em>, how could he - „Figures, you know. That I’d manage to even mess up a kid that isn’t my own.“</p><p> </p><p>„No,“ he chokes. „No, Tony, you don’t get to - fuck you. Fuck you, you fucking asshole.“ His entire body is frozen, removed, and he can barely feel his feet taking him through that door, can’t hear Tony calling out his name, not really. He refuses to cry, he does. It’s just - it feels like he’s gotten an answer, then. And it’s not the one he wanted. It’s the exact fucking opposite, and he can feel the something tear and tumble. He calls May and of course she can tell something’s wrong, immediately. Asks: „Honey, are you alright?“ And fuck, but he really, really isn't. She’s at the door when he gets there, and he doesn’t even make it past the threshold before he crumbles into her arms. It's truly a testament to the state he's in when she doesn't even comment on his paint streaked face.</p><p> </p><p>For once, Peter can’t tell what May’s thinking. It’s freaking him out. „May,“ he asks (<em>did I say something wrong? are you mad?</em>). „Oh, sweetheart. No, it’s alright -“ And of course she can read him like an open book, still, like this. Can sense his anxiety. Granted, he’s not making it all too hard for her. His hands haven’t stopped shaking since they parted at the door. „You know,“ she starts, and her tone is so, so gentle, Peter wonders what he really looks like. If it’s as feral, as wretched as he thinks. „I knew something changed for you, when he died. I guess I never really saw it for what it was. In my head, it was - you know, losing your hero, again. After Ben. After your dad.“ Peter nods, throat dry. „Are you - mad?“ „No, Peter. Of course I’m not. Is it what I would’ve wanted for you? No. But it’s not your job to be what I would’ve wanted for you. It’s like - I can’t ask you to undo yourself. There was a time when you could’ve been just a kid. With trivial, stupid little problems and uncomplicated loves. But those are things of the past. You get to look for happiness in places that are right for you. The person you are now.“ He nods. „In fact, I think that’s the gist of it. Sweetheart, I love you. And because I do, I only ever wanted things to be a lot easier for you than they are. It’s hard not to feel guilty when things happen to the ones we love and it feels like if only we’d made different choices, they wouldn’t have. Guilt is a narcissist in disguise, sweetheart. You know a thing or two about that, don’t you?“ And maybe - maybe he does. Thinks of looking at Morgan and thinking - sorry, kid. I’m sorry for what I took from you. Remembers barely being able to look Pepper in the eye, after. How he’d felt so fucking dirty for how kindly she’d looked at him, for how gentle she’d been, how he’d wanted her to scream and yell, to throw one of those tasteful fucking vases at him.</p><p> </p><p>„It’s just -“ He doesn’t know what. Where to start. Maybe, it’s this: Tony had called him fucked up. And he’d thought - if anyone could see him for who he is, all dents and bruises, and not think of him as <em>ruined</em>, it would be Tony. If anyone could’ve seen something good and valuable, something left to salvage, it should’ve been Tony. The man’s made gold of dirt. It hadn’t even occurred to Peter that even Tony might only see in him what he fears he is: Spare parts, an echo of a star, already dead. So, it’s this: This idea that Tony looks at Peter and sees something broken, unwhole, something ruined, that he looks at him and sees only failed potential. That one hurts. Because Peter had thought that if there was anywhere he’d still fit, it was with Tony.</p><p> </p><p>But it’s this, too - how can he be sure whatever had made Tony bring him back, whatever makes him stay, now - that it’s not just some sort of debt the man’s trying to settle? Because if this is it, if the feeling Tony has for him isn’t love, whichever kind, but responsibility, if all he can see in Peter isn’t someone, someone scrappy, someone who survived it all, someone who understands his nightmares - if he’s just some sort of surface for Tony to see all his faults and failings reflected in, some fucking plot device in his quest for self-flagellation - then he can’t do this. Can’t. And he’d thought - if they ever got to try again, Tony’d be able to see him as a person. And maybe he can’t. Still can’t. The gravity of what that would mean makes Peter’s stomach turn. And how fucking ironic would that be? If Peter’d taken a chance just to have all his worst fears confirmed.</p><p> </p><p>Peter’s no idiot. He is aware that meeting Tony had shaped him in some way. That if it hadn’t been for him, recruiting him, he may never have gone to space, may never have had to face Beck. But: He’d still have turned to dust, wouldn’t he? He’d still have been reckless, taken on too much, because Peter, too, has always had too much to prove and demons always a little too close by to ever really rest, and that’s him, not Tony, not the way he’d wanted his approval, just him, except that maybe it wouldn’t have been, if it hadn’t been for Ben, and Ben, he’d thought that was his fault too, but maybe if he hadn’t lost his parents, Ben would be alive and - all these things are true. So how far back does he have to go, to determine who’s at fault for what? And god, Peter is so sick of thinking about fault. He is. Of course, he’d known Tony’s stance on this. All about his guilt and savior complex. May is right: Guilt is a narcissist in disguise. It’s quite the roundabout way to go about hating oneself, but you get there in the end. All you have to assume for the equation to add up is that you’re all powerful and all knowing. If Peter knows one thing now that he didn’t, before, it’s this: Tony might be close to all powerful, but no one, not even Tony Stark, is all knowing. He gets that he’s one to talk. But maybe, it’s time to stop playing this goddamn game. The road to hell, and all. Something caused something else, and then, the big bang - so fuck fault. He’s fucking done dealing in fault. After everything, every big and little fucking thing, the losses and the victories that felt like losses, all those goddamn phyrric victories - he’s tired of it. They’re all just trying to do the best they can with whatever they have, whatever they know. It might not be much - still. It's all that's left.</p><p> </p><p>He swings himself onto Tony’s balcony, later that night. Sits on the stairs and lights a cigarette, waiting. He isn’t sure how long it takes, but finally, the door opens with a click. Without turning around, he tosses his cigarettes in Tony’s general direction. „So, Tony. Are you omnipotent or benevolent? Just to settle that debate, once and for all.“ He hears the zing of a lighter, a huff. „Plantinga. Clever.“ „I thought so, yes. So, which is it?“ There's eons of defeat in Tony's voice, when he answers, a beat too late. „Peter, come on. You know it’s not as simple as that.“ He looks up at him, face blank: „Isn’t it?“ Tony sits down in front of him. If he looked sad earlier today, he looks miserable now. Older, too. „No. I wish it were. As enticing the idea is, Peter, I don’t deserve the absolution.“ And maybe, in another lifetime, that would have been true. But it isn't, in this one. Perhaps, if things had been easier on all of them - but they hadn't been. And Peter knows all about choices you make with your hands tied, about how having your back against the wall blurs your vision. There's that line in a poem he'd read in one of MJ's books, or her notes, somewhere, that's burnt itself into his brain. Something about a story not of good versus evil, but need versus need. He has to think of it, now. „You know, Tony - I’m not some shrine to your failures. I’m an actual, real person. With agency.“ Tony smiles, sadly. „I know, Peter. Trust me, I do. But come on, let’s not pretend here. I got you into this, kid, and I shouldn’t have. If I’d been a better man, a less selfish man, I’d never have. You barely had a choice, kid.“ Peter wants to scream, to hit him. Anything to make him understand. „Tony, I’d had my fair share of shit to shovel long before I became Spiderman. Do you honestly think I would’ve stopped, if it hadn’t been for you? That I wouldn’t have gotten myself into these situations? I don’t know if you know, but I’m stubborn as fuck.“ Tony’s smile gets a little more geniune, at that. „Oh, trust me, I know.“ „Then don’t. Don’t do this to me. Don’t use me to torture yourself, because - shit, Tony, I know I’m not as shiny as I used to be, but a I really that bad?“ Peter hates how needy he sounds, the way his voice breaks. He might as well lay out all these complicated things he feels right here for Tony to see. Right now, he doesn't know if he wants him to. See, that is. But his tone changes the course of their conversation: Somethings seems to dawn on Tony, an understanding. „Peter, fuck. No. No - you’re great. I never meant. I never meant to say that you’re fucked up. You’re not. I don’t know how you do it, honestly. After everything, you’re still so good. The best thing I’ve seen. I never meant to say you weren’t.“ The breath Peter draws is long, shaky. „Okay,“ he whispers, suddenly choked up. „Then what did you mean, Tony?“ „Peter, you went through so many things you never should’ve gone through. Somehow, you’ve managed to come out on the other side this honest to god good man. It’s just that I can tell things are hard for you, still. I wish they weren’t. It feels like there’s so much I’ve taken from you. That in an ideal world, you wouldn’t even be here, right now. With me. If you’d been a normal kid, you’d be out with your friends, not babysitting an old man. But you’re not, and it feels like I did that, and now, I even have the nerve to be glad about that - because I am, Pete. I’m fucking glad you want to be here. Look, I’m not an idiot. I know there’s very few people who know what you’ve been through. I get why you’re here. It just feels like I got you hooked so you’d need me, because I want you around. It’s just a little too fucking convenient, that I should get to have this.“</p><p> </p><p>Peter’s laugh is joyless, dark. „Convenient? I missed you for five whole fucking years, Tony. It’s not fucking convenient. Lord help whoever should try and stop me from having this. I want to be here because you brought me <em>back,“</em> and he says it in a way that he hopes conveys what he means, the impossibility of it all, the odds, "and I’ve missed you ever since. So yes, how very fucking manipulative to save my life, Tony. Caring as a tactic, A fucking plus for this masterpiece of deception.“ And finally, some of the tension leaves Tony’s shoulders. Peter is dimly aware that this won’t be the last time they’ll have this fight. But he’ll take any victory, no matter how small.</p><p> </p><p>„I guess this is proof of that, huh?“ Tony gestures at the cigarette Peter’s holding, shakes the packet in his hand „That you’re capable of making mistakes entirely without my doing?“ Peter grins, blows a waft of smoke into his face. „What, you’re not going to find a way to make this your fault? Didn’t lecture me properly on the risks of smoking, before?“ And Tony gives him a look that says: <em>You’re right kid, but don’t push your luck just yet. </em>„I just mean it’s good to see. A little corruption suits you, Peter Parker.“ And well, Peter is only human. Tony has to know what he sounds like when he says things like that. What he’s doing to Peter. What images flood his mind, unbidden, at the thought of being <em>corrupted</em> by Tony. It’s almost comforting, this time, how painfully turned on he is. It feels like they’ve landed on their feet, for now.</p><p> </p><p>At home, he looks up the quote and sends it to Tony. A notification tells him his message has been read, but there's no answer. Which is okay. He thinks Tony understands, anyway.</p><p>"Imagine that the world is made out of love. Now imagine that it isn’t. Imagine a story where everything goes wrong, where everyone has their back against the wall, where everyone is in pain and acting selfishly because if they don’t, they’ll die. Imagine a story, not of good against evil, but of need against need against need, where everyone is at cross-purposes and everyone is to blame." (Richard Siken) </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi you. Hope you like this update - I'd love some feedback. Next one will be up with a little playlist, as promised. Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. knew you'd linger, like a tattoo kiss</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He lets himself in with the key he’s been given, and kicks off his shoes. „Tony?“ There’s rustling in the kitchen, Tony’s steps discernible even from the entryway. Still. It feels - callously intimate, to be coming in here like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Of course, he doesn’t want to startle Tony. But mostly he just doesn’t want to let himself get caught up in the lightness of it all. Doesn’t need his treacherous, insufferable head to draw conclusions for which there’s no evidence. And how easy that would be: Letting himself think, oh, I’m coming home to this. „In the kitchen. Got the wine?“ Tony calls out, not halting his movements one bit. Peter doesn’t think of how mindlessly he welcomes him, like he fits so well here the gravity of it all barely occurs to him. Like he’s completely oblivious to what it does to Peter, this casual revelation of intimacy.</p><p> </p><p>So, he leans himself against the doorframe of the kitchen, wine lodged under the crook of his elbow, and smiles. „Got the wine, yeah. You need a hand, here?“ He knows Tony doesn’t. Knows now how Tony’s single-minded focus, the reckless abandon with which he pursues his inventions, his theories, translates to even this. Of all the things he’d expected, Tony being the type to cook and do it well - he’d never have guessed. „Nah, we’re good.“ He motions for Peter to come over, holds up a spoon for him to taste. Peter leans his head over Tony’s shoulder and blows on the steaming risotto, before tasting it. It’s really, really good. „Wow, Tones. Not bad for a vegan risotto.“ Tony lights up at that. „Right? Right? Now who says I’m not adaptable?“ Peter laughs. „No one, actually, I think.“ Tony shrugs, then nudges him with his shoulder gently. „You can put that bottle on the table, and then go change. I bought you a sweater, it’s on the bed, if you don’t approve just pick anything else.“ Here he goes again, with that easy affection. Picking out sweaters, laying them out for him. What’s a boy supposed to think? He opts for deflection: „One of these days, we’re going to have a talk about expensive gift-giving.“</p><p> </p><p>The sweater on the bed is loud, green and ridiculous. It’s perfect. And Gucci, which - well. He’s not going to think about how he’ll be wearing a sweater that’s pretty much his rent, not right now. He’s too touched, in all honesty. It’s the grown up version of the awful science pun tees he used to wear. The ones he’d regretfully retired. He went to MIT. There’s no need to overemphasize what a nerd he is, anymore. MJ had made him burn one, symbolically, before donating the rest. Ned had given a speech. Not a bad one, either - as far as textile eulogies go. He strips out of his shirt, smelling the bunched up fabric. Just as he’d suspected. It’s a lost cause. The smell of anxious sweat and his stress smoke cling to it. So he goes to get himself an undershirt of Tony’s. He’d come here straight from the library after a long, tedious session of going over the notes his advisor’d had for his thesis. He’d lost track of time and only realized there was no way he’d make it if he went home and changed when Tony texted. He doesn’t know when the hell Tony found the time to pick it, wonders, if maybe, he’d bought it for Peter on a whim. He likes the idea of that. Likes to think he’s on Tony’s mind the way Tony is on his. So much that he sees a hideous space themed Gucci sweater and thinks - Peter would like this.</p><p> </p><p>„Thank you for the sweater, Tony. You shouldn’t have, but I love it.“ Tony turns around to face him, leaning his hips against the stove, crossing his arms. „Looks great. Come on, let’s see it, give me a spin.“ And Peter stretches his arms wide and spins on the heels of his feet, exaggeratedly, finishing on a curtsy. The smile Tony sends his way is downright blinding. The vertigo he feels, suddenly, has nothing to do with his spin. He has to bow his head a little, then. He might be blushing. But then, Tony pipes up again. „Wait, the tag’s all twisted up, there -“ And he’s right in front of Peter a second later, and then there’s two fingers touching the back of his neck, gently readjusting. The touch travels down his spine, all the way. Tony is so, so close. Peter can smell his skin under his aftershave. That’s how close he is. „Thanks,“ he croaks. Something in his tone alerts Tony - his eyes shoot up to meet Peter’s, and then - well fuck, now he’s blushing and those fucking headlight eyes are on him, and there might be something, there, in his gaze. Peter swallows, and it’s so quiet around them that it feels too loud. An admission, inadvertent. But then, Tony steps back. „Come on, Pete, help me set the table. They’ll be here in a bit.“</p><p> </p><p>Pepper is radiant, as always. „Hi, Pep,“ Peter greets her, like this is his home, like Tony and him are hosting this, together, like it’s a fucking couple’s dinner, and shit, doesn’t that sound like the premise of some subpar sitcom. Just a man having dinner with his ex wife and her fiancée, and a sad little twink whose hopeless infatuation with him is obvious to everyone involved, except the man in question, himself. „You look beautiful, wow.“ And she does. The blouse she’s wearing is an emerald that has her hair looking like a wildfire. „You’re not looking too bad yourself, Pete. Very snazzy.“ He gives her a bashful little bow, then goes to greet her date. If Peter’s intimidated by Pepper, he is scared shitless of her fiancée, Carlota. She’s beautiful in a way that is so deeply, effortlessly elegant she makes Peter feel like a graceless fool, tripping over his own feet, every time they meet. Still, he greets her with a hug. „It’s great to see you,“ he says, and she holds him tight and grins at him. „Peter, that’s a hideous sweater. I love it.“</p><p> </p><p>It’s the first time Peter’s seen Tony interact with the two of them, together. If there’s any leftover awkwardness, there’s no telling. Pepper gets a very Tony kiss to the cheek, and Carlota wraps her arms around him like they’re old friends, greeting Tony with a throaty, „Hola, flaquito.“ Still, it takes a minute or two for Peter to find his bearings. It’s too odd a situation - he feels like they have a secret between them he isn’t in on, like this is some practical joke he doesn’t get. Surely, Tony shouldn’t be this okay with this. Not yet, anyway. It’s beyond him how he could have gotten used to this, already. It doesn’t help that he feels as though the two women can see right through him. Fears that he’s some pitiful little creature way in over his head, that he’s as transparent as he feels, and that they look at him and think, <em>oh, Peter. Poor, oblivious Peter. Do you really think there’s even the slightest chance of this happening? Oh, you poor thing, you.</em></p><p> </p><p>It feels downright ludicrous, to want, right there. Unfathomable to think that Pepper had had Tony and lost him and not gone mad over it. And Peter’s no Pepper Potts. Most days, it’s still wild enough to him that he’s allowed to be here at all. All of them, worldly and wise, are in a league of their own. Who does he think he is, to want to stake a claim that’s not his to stake at all. And yes, maybe - maybe, that’s the guilt talking. It’s this, after all, isn’t it: If it hadn’t been for Peter, they’d still be together. And then he has the audacity to sit at the dinner table with them and want the man he’d taken from her so reverently, all-consumingly he can’t even risk to look over at him, right now, for fear he’d sign his own guilty plea. But if Peter’s learnt one thing in the past years, it’s faking it. And fake it, he does.</p><p> </p><p>At some point - they’re well into the second bottle of wine - they get to wedding talks. Pepper is telling them all about Carlota’s wonderful niece, a truly artistic girl, taking the time out of her busy schedule to do their flower arrangements. „Aurora is so talented, we’re delighted she wants to help,“ Carlota agrees, the picture of pride, and Peter looks up. „Wait,“ he says. „Aurora? Aurora Martinez?“ She nods. „Yeah, that’s her. Why?“ „She’s my friend MJ’s roommate, actually. She’s great. I had no idea she’s so artistic. Last we met she kind of used her, uh, other talents to drag me within an inch of my life,“ he recounts, grinning. It gets him a brilliant laugh. „Oh yeah, she’s real good. Makes me feel like I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar, more often than not.“ Eyebrows raised, he nods, solemn. <em>Don’t have to tell me.</em> „So you’re MJ’s friend. Tell me, Pete, her an MJ - what’s the deal, there?“ And so Peter tells her everything he knows and everything he doesn’t (which is a lot more, in all honesty), but suspects. At some point, Tony jumps in. „Wait, okay, back up here for a sec. I thought MJ was your, well something?“ Peter makes a noncommittal sound. „I mean, she was, for a second, years ago. We didn’t really work all that well, romantically. We’re still really really good friends, though.“ He isn’t sure if he should leave it at that. If anything more would get them too close to something he isn’t ready to share. Like how he’d realized he didn’t really like girls, not even MJ, whom he loved so dearly. How it had mostly been how Tony had died and torn him right open. How he’d known then, that he’d never, not once, felt that way about anyone else. Sure, it had taken some experimenting to settle, but he’d gotten there, eventually. Funnily enough, it hadn’t even occurred to him Tony might not know.</p><p> </p><p>He makes it quite clear he doesn’t, when he asks: „Really, how come?“ Pepper laughs, then. Shares a look with her fiancée, something unspoken, conspicuous passing between the two of them. „Tony, Peter’s gay. Jesus. Your gaydar isn’t what it used to be.“ Tony is clearly offended by the affront. „Okay, first of all, I didn’t say he was straight. People are bi, Pepper. Or fluid, or -„ He waves his hand as if to say, <em>take a pick.</em> She raises her brows at him, and purposefully takes Carlota’s hand in hers, raising their intertwined fingers up between their shoulders. „You don’t say,“ she deadpans. Peter clears his throat. „To be fair, it took me a while to get there. Like, I thought, okay, I’m probably bi, and then it turned out I’m gay. For MJ, it was the other way around. Ned’s pretty much given up trying to pinpoint it at all. So, yeah. S a process, and all.“ He finally dares to point his eyes in Tony’s direction. Tony shrugs. „Yeah, I know. I think there’s about 72 pages on tmz documenting mine, in great detail no less.“ And well, fuck him, but doesn’t Peter know.</p><p> </p><p>„So, Peter, I hear you’re graduating soon. Got plans for after?“ He’s grateful for the change of topic. To something a little less delicate, a little less raw. „Oh, I’m doing grad school, definitely. Got the scholarship ready to go. Now it’s just, you know, chosing.“ Tony smiles at him, encouragingly. „That’s great. So, what will it be?“ He busies himself with refilling his and Pepper’s glasses. „Um, well. I’ve got offers from both MIT and Columbia. Just have to make a choice.“ A sideways glance in Tony’s direction has him swallow, hard. Remind himself that he’s not seeing what he thinks he is. Because god, if he didn’t know any better, he’d say Tony appears carefully neutral. Like he’s willing himself not to react. „It’s - well. MIT seems like the obvious choice, I guess. I have an apartment there, already, I know the instructors and facilities.“ A twitch in the hand Tony’s got wrapped around his glass. How he’s gripping it, just a tad too hard. „But, um. I’ve really, really missed the city. It should be a no brainer, but it isn’t. Which says something in itself, I suppose.“ „Well,“ Tony says, without looking at him. „They’d all be lucky to have you.“ His attempt at modesty is waved off, immediately. Still, he won’t look at Peter. Like he, too, doesn’t trust himself to conceal what he wants to stay hidden. Knows, rationally, should be hidden, if he were a little less selfish. It has an anticipatory tingle spread through Peter’s hands. The notion that maybe, impossibly, Tony is afraid he might end up asking for something he shouldn’t ask for, has no right to ask for, if he lets himself look.</p><p> </p><p>It’s two am and they’re hideously, outrageously drunk. Tony and Carlota are in the kitchen, stacking the dishwasher, giggling like school kids who snuck some booze. Pepper’s followed him outside and gratefully taken the cigarette he offered. They’re sitting side by side, feet dangling, when she speaks up: „We figured it out, right before, you know.“ Peter looks at her. He doesn’t know.„It had been years and years of that dance, by then. Couldn’t stay and couldn’t leave, before. It was - good, what we had. But I think we lied to ourselves, the entire time. He was always running. Always chasing something to ease that itch in his bones. Some sort of salvation. And I - I could never keep up. We decided that it was time to be honest with ourselves. Each other. Something would have to give. I loved him enough to want him to be able to rest easy, to be able to stop running. And I realized then that I loved myself enough to admit that I could no longer try to keep up, you know? He couldn’t keep still and I couldn’t run anymore. I never wanted to end up hating him, a little. So we decided to stop trying to play this game. With her, it’s - there never was any game. It just lined up. What we each ask of the other, and what we can give. We can just be. Time flows slower, with her.“</p><p> </p><p>It takes a while for Peter to work up the courage to ask. „Why are you telling me this?“ And she smiles, like an old, immeasurably wise, deity looking down on her creation: „It seemed like you should know.“ And Peter’s inclined to agree. He’d just hoped that maybe, he wasn’t quite as transparent. Still, he nods. Suddenly seeming sober, she stands and extends her hand. „Come on. Let’s get back in there before they remember there’s whiskey.“</p><p> </p><p>Peter takes the guest room. Tony hands him something to wear, an old shirt and pants, and tells him, before he retreats to his own bedroom: „MIT’s a great school.“ Peter nods. It is. Wonders, though, who he’s trying to remind of that. He lies awake for a little while longer, in this guest room he’d helped furnish. Stares at the ceiling they’ve painted his favorite color. Thinks, it is. A great school. And still, he doesn’t want to go. Thinks, that maybe, just maybe - Tony doesn’t want him to, either. He sends two e-mails before he goes to sleep. One to the physics department at MIT, to decline their offer. And one to the one at Columbia, confirming his admission. He dreams of woolen space ships and stolen stares.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Turns out I'm a lot less adept at figuring out how to publish an anonymous playlist than I'd thought. Working on it, though. In the meantime, enjoy this new chapter. And let me know what you think. Lots of love!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. playlist intermezzo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>cardigan - taylor swift</b>
  <span class="Apple-converted-space">  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K-a8s8OLBSE">____________________________</a></span>
</p><p> </p><p>cause I knew you, steppin’ on the last train</p><p> </p><p>marked me like a bloodstain,</p><p> </p><p>i knew you tried to change the ending,</p><p> </p><p>peter losing wendy</p><p> </p><p>i knew you, leavin’ like a father, running like water</p><p> </p><p>and when you are young they assume you know nothing</p><p> </p><p>but I knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss</p><p> </p><p>i knew you'd haunt all of my what ifs, </p><p>
  
</p><p>the smell of smoke would hang around this long</p><p> </p><p>cause I knew everything when I was young</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>bad habit - your smith <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jhf-GqksRCA">______________________</a></b>
</p><p> </p><p>we drove until we beat the sun</p><p> </p><p>from home to la</p><p> </p><p>i think we loved each other most</p><p> </p><p>when we were running away</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>i got a bad habit</p><p> </p><p>of smoking too much</p><p> </p><p>of drinking onstage</p><p> </p><p>i got a bad habit</p><p> </p><p>of living rich</p><p> </p><p>on minimum wage</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>i got a bad habit</p><p> </p><p>but loving you</p><p> </p><p>is the worst one</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>21 - gracie abrams</b>
  <span class="Apple-converted-space"> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eyX5zUI3oq0">_______________________________</a></span>
</p><p> </p><p>i’m sorry if you blame me</p><p> </p><p>if I were you, I would</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>i see the look in your eye and I’m biting my tongue</p><p> </p><p>you’ll be the love of my life when I was young</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>i get a little bit alone sometimes</p><p> </p><p>and i miss you again</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>jimmy franco - lolawolf <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eg_-IVEZwcU">______________________</a></b>
</p><p> </p><p>you know that I don't fuck with the truth</p><p> </p><p>fuck with the truth</p><p> </p><p>anymore</p><p> </p><p>i've been dying to tell a lie</p><p> </p><p>well, just to stop from crying</p><p> </p><p>cause I'm thinking what I'm thinking</p><p> </p><p>do you know what I'm thinking?</p><p>
  
</p><p>when I'm not thinking 'bout you?</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>disorder - joy division <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhCLalLXHP4">_____________________________________</a></strong>
</p><p> </p><p>i've been waiting for a guide</p><p> </p><p>           to come and take me by the hand</p><p> </p><p>could these sensations make me feel the pleasures of a normal man?</p><p> </p><p>        it's getting faster, moving faster now</p><p> </p><p>                             it's getting out of hand</p><p> </p><p>down the backstairs on the tenth floor</p><p> </p><p>                      it's a no man's land</p><p> </p><p>       who is right, who can tell and who gives a damn right now?</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <b>wetsuit - the vaccines<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZY4J3sVMmN0"> __________________________________</a></b>
</p><p> </p><p>if at some point we all succumb,</p><p>
  
</p><p>for goodness sake, let us be young</p><p> </p><p>cause time gets harder to outrun</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>we all got old at breakneck speed, slow it down,</p><p> </p><p>go easy on me</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>all my heroes - bleachers <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rVUD2jhq2YQ">_______________________________</a></b>
</p><p> </p><p>all my heroes got tired,</p><p> </p><p>and the days, they got short</p><p> </p><p>and the love that I dreamt of</p><p> </p><p>came to me at my worst</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>i remember driving out of the state</p><p> </p><p>no nothing dies</p><p> </p><p>until somebody’s soul does</p><p> </p><p>somebody sold us all kinds of lies</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>i know alone - haim <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vfZSgr_si4I">________________________________</a></b>
</p><p> </p><p>i don't wanna give too much</p><p>
  
</p><p>and I don't wanna feel, I don't wanna feel at all</p><p> </p><p>cause nights turn into days </p><p>
  
</p><p>that turn to grey</p><p> </p><p>keep turning over</p><p> </p><p>some things never grow</p><p> </p><p>i know alone, like no one else does</p><p> </p><p>some things never change,</p><p>
  
</p><p>they never fade</p><p> </p><p>it's never over</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>smother - daughter <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GnkzvAXWV-0">___________________________________</a></b>
</p><p> </p><p>i’m wasted, losing time</p><p>
  
</p><p>i’m a fragile, foolish spine</p><p> </p><p>i want all that is not mine</p><p>i want him, but we’re not right</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>liability - lorde <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BtvJaNeELic">___________________________________________</a></b>
</p><p> </p><p>the truth is, I am a toy that people enjoy</p><p> </p><p>’til all of the tricks don’t work anymore</p><p> </p><p>then they are bored of me</p><p> </p><p>i know that it’s exciting, running through the night</p><p>
  
</p><p>but every perfect summer’s eating me alive</p><p> </p><p>until you’re gone</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>running up that hill (a deal with god) - kate bush</b>
  <span class="Apple-converted-space"> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wp43OdtAAkM">________</a></span>
</p><p> </p><p>do you wanna hear about the deal we’re making?</p><p> </p><p>and if I only could, I’d make a deal with god</p><p> </p><p>and I’d get him to swap our places</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>you don't want to hurt me, but see how deep the bullet lies</p><p> </p><p>unaware I'm tearing you asunder</p><p> </p><p>oh, there is thunder in our hearts</p><p> </p><p>is there so much hate for the ones we love?</p><p> </p><p>tell me, we both matter, don't we?</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>
    <span class="Apple-converted-space">so good at being in trouble - unknown mortal orchestra<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PERf5un2nC0"> ____</a></span>
  </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>        now that you're gone</p><p><br/>
it's been a long lonely time</p><p><br/>
                    it's a long, sad lonely time</p><p><br/>
rolling along, i'm in a strange state of mind</p><p> </p><p>                          it's a strange old state of mind</p><p> </p><p>memories, they mess with my mind</p><p><br/>
    who am i to deny</p><p><br/>
                she was so good at being in trouble</p><p><br/>
so good at being in trouble</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>california - lana del rey <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vK1YiArMDfg">______________________________________</a></b>
</p><p> </p><p>you’re scared to win,scared to lose</p><p> </p><p>i heard the war was over, if you really choose</p><p> </p><p>the one in and around you</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>self control - frank ocean <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BME88lS6aVY">______________________________________</a></b>
</p><p> </p><p>wish I was there, wish we’d grown up on the same advice</p><p> </p><p>and our time was right</p><p> </p><p>(keep a place for me)</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>talia - king princess <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=43n1wghXRGM">______________________________________________</a></b>
</p><p> </p><p>hey, my love</p><p> </p><p>buried you a month or two ago</p><p> </p><p>i keep thinking that you’re standing on my floor,</p><p> </p><p>that you’re waiting there for me</p><p> </p><p>bout four drinks, i’m wasted</p><p> </p><p>i can see you dancing, i can lay down next to you</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>the only thing - sufjan stevens <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=adKEqin5SoI">_____________________________________</a></b>
</p><p> </p><p>do i care if I survive this</p><p> </p><p>bury the dead where they’re found</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>don’t delete the kisses - wolf alice <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WqxE-zppu30">__________________________________</a></b>
</p><p> </p><p>i see the signs of a life time, you till I die</p><p> </p><p>and i’m swiftly out, irish goodbye</p><p> </p><p>what if it’s not meant for me,</p><p> </p><p>love</p><p> </p><p>i’m typing you a message that I know I’ll never send</p><p> </p><p>rewriting old excuses</p><p> </p><p>delete the kisses at the end</p><p> </p><p>when I see you, the world reduces to just that room</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. your heartbeat on the high line, once in twenty lifetimes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eventually, Peter has to go back to Cambridge for a bit. There’s some exams he has to take, a thesis he has to write and defend, still. Before he gets to go back to New York and all that is waiting for him there, all that he thinks might be waiting for him there. Returning to MIT has him feeling like a teenager in a way that he hasn’t in a long time: He hasn’t been on the train for more than an hour before he starts dreading those weeks back at college, already. He feels 17 again, love sick and just a little pathetic, but - he can’t imagine being away from Tony again for that long. The mere prospect makes him want to get off at the next stop and return to the city. It’s ridiculous and juvenile, he knows, but it’s late and the sun is setting and all he can think of is Tony in that Bushwick brownstone making dinner, and he wants to be there so bad he can practically smell the onions in a pan on the stove.</p><p> </p><p>Before he can get a grip on himself - and oh, if that isn’t the running theme of his life currently - he texts Tony. „Is it ridiculous I’m missing New York already?“ The embarrassment is immediate. Tony is no fool. Peter may as well have written what he’d wanted to. That it wasn’t New York at all that he missed. The implication is clear, either way. So he’s mortified, yes, achingly so, but there’s a bit of a thrill, too. Like he’s opened a door he wasn’t supposed to by just an inch, and now he’s waiting for whatever’s inside to show its head. He just prays he won’t have to regret this, that it won’t show him something he doesn’t want to see at all.</p><p>Again, before he can begin to lose himself in the anxiety crawling up his throat, his screen lights up with a text from Tony. „I don’t know, but I think New York misses you back.“ And then, a fraction later: „Maybe New York can come visit you down in Cambridge this weekend. If you’re not too busy. I hear New York can be real quiet when you need it to.“</p><p> </p><p>And true to his word, there he is. Tony Stark, in a sensible, if chic (always chic, because he can’t help himself, not really), fall coat and sunglasses, suitcase in hand. It’s so utterly unremarkable Peter can’t quite believe it’s real. Tony took the train down to MIT to spend a weekend watching Peter work and study and eat take out somewhere in-between the both. Like this is a thing that can be. That he can have.</p><p>„Hey, Tony, let me take that.“ Tony is not impressed. He raises his brows and lifts his glasses for dramatic effect. It drives the point home, alright, but Peter isn’t having any of it. „Oh, shut it, old man. Let your hunky twenty-one year old companion help you, what with that back of yours.“ He gets a laugh, at least, and Tony hands over the suitcase without any more resistance. With his arm now unoccupied, Tony drapes it over Peter’s shoulders and pulls him in for a quick, affectionate side hug. „How very galant of you, young man,“ he deadpans, but he doesn’t move his arm away, just steps to the side a little, his hand coming to rest between Peter’s shoulder blades as they walk. Peter just hopes he can’t feel his heart speed up from where they touch. Thinks, distantly, that he might, with how it’s hammering in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Peter learns something new that weekend: Tony can, in fact, be quiet, if he’s needed to be. It should be a relief to find that Tony is entirely capable of not interfering even without his own project to work on. It isn’t. Because Tony, while being a perfectly accommodating study buddy, volume wise, is making it impossible for him to focus. He’s just sitting there, in the library, knees crammed under the tiny library table they’re sitting at right alongside Peter’s, studying him like he’s a complicated problem he can’t quite figure out. Not with frustration, because Peter knows it’s these kind of problems Tony likes most - the ones that challenge him, drown out all the rest, force his brain into a singular focus he can’t simulate, can’t emulate. Maybe, Peter thinks, Tony isn’t project-less at all.</p><p>The idea is both exhilarating and terrifying. Because Peter is no saint. He’s seen this look on Tony. Has, secretly, silently, shamefully imagined himself at the center of it time and time again, from early on. Tony isn’t an easy man to captivate. The thought of being the subject of such intense scrutiny from him is, quite frankly, the hottest thing he can imagine. Still, it leaves him hot under the collar in a way he isn’t sure is entirely pleasure. What does Tony see when he looks at him? What is he trying to figure out? Is it what Peter wants him to see? And what, pray tell, is that, anyway?</p><p>His dilemma must be showing on his face, because Tony leans into his space, elbows coming to rest on Peter’s crumpled notes. „You okay there, Pete?“ Peter looks up into Tony’s eyes, and mellows a little. Breathes, slowly. Lowers his shoulders. It’s Tony. Just Tony. There is no one else he’d rather be with, no one’s eyes he’d rather have on him. No one else he’d rather have see whatever they see when they look at him like this. „Yeah. Just a little low on concentration, is all.“ This sets Tony into motion. His knee bumps the table top when he all but jumps up, an excited gleam to his eyes. „Okay, up. We’re relocating.“ Tony squeezes over to his side of the desk, his shoulder bumping Peter’s as he helps him gather his things, their hands brushing ever so slightly. It lights a fire under Peter’s skin. Then, his hand settles on his back again, thumb brushing against the back of his neck, the touch feather light, barely there - it still sends shivers down his spine.</p><p> </p><p>They head to a small place near Broadway, all vinyl chairs and frog green walls that serves greasy carbs. Oddly enough, Tony fits right in. He orders for the both of them - toast and fries and coffee, some sort of berry pie and more cream than reasonably justifiable. And then he spreads out Peter’s notes, his big, engineer’s hands planted atop the plastic tabletop. „Alright, kid. Let’s do this. I ask questions, you answer. No more cramming. You’ve used stuff like this in practice when you were in fucking high school. It’s all about realizing what you already know, Pete.“ And so they do. Peter drinks his coffee and digs into the fries, and by the time the tiny waitress with the pink hair has refilled his cup for the fourth time, they’ve been bouncing ideas and concepts off of each other for hours.</p><p> </p><p>Tony, of course, was right. Peter does know his stuff. He tends to assume he knows too little, knows it too superficially, but he knows he’s good. It’s nice to be reminded. And who better to test his knowledge on than Tony Stark, the man who came up with half the concepts they’re learning about. Peter leans back in his seat, and stretches his back. He raises his hands in disbelief. „Okay, well. I might be kinda smart.“ He can’t help the smile he breaks out into at Tony’s bewildered expression, and he’s still grinning like a madman when Tony laughs - a sun exploding, a supernova, a universe, remade - and it’s pure joy on his face, when he grabs Peter’s shoulders across the table, grips him like he’ll vanish and tells him, solemnly, sincerely, „Peter, yes, god - you’re brilliant.“ And Peter scoffs, shies away from the praise, because brilliant is for time-benders and downright greek heroes, but Tony places his hands on both of his cheeks instead, palms warm and right on his face and forces him to look at him, and their faces are so, so close - Peter wants to be brave and steal some of that supernova sunshine smile away for himself, to drown himself in cosmic matter, but he can’t, and when Tony murmurs, quietly, softly, „Peter, I swear, I mean it. You’re brilliant“, Peter thinks, maybe, maybe this will do.</p><p> </p><p>Later, when Tony’s off to the bathroom, the waitress comes to give them their cheque. She smiles at him, and the gap between her front teeth makes her look downright saccharine, when she tells him: „Your boyfriend’s a keeper. He really loves you.“ And Peter wants to laugh, correct her, and let her be on her way. Instead, he says: „Yeah, you think so?“ The smile she gives him gets impossibly wider as she leans in conspiratively. „Oh, definitely. Take it from me. You see a lot of people coming through here. You learn a thing or two.“ So Peter watches Tony make his way back to the table, head in his had. Tony sits down again in one swift motion, mirroring his stance. „Bothering the waitress, Spiderling?“ „No, just getting her opinion on my boyfriend.“ He draws out the word meaningfully, raising his brows. This elicits a short, brusque laugh from Tony. „And, she like me?“ Peter nods. „Big time. Says you’re a keeper.“ The smile he gets in return is soft, timid.</p><p>Suddenly, the whole thing feels a lot less like they’re joking. Peter is about to comment, turned brave by the strange mood that’s spilled into the space, this oddly serious sense about Tony. But he interrupts before Peter can gather his courage: „Well, let’s not have her think I’m cheap then.“ With that, he places a more than generous tip on the table, and stands, stretching out his hand, and suddenly the amused glint in his eyes is back. Peter takes the bait, takes his hand, and tries not to go red in the cheeks when Tony croons, „Come on, sweetheart, it’s getting late. Let me take you home.“ And Peter doesn’t imagine Tony saying those words and meaning it, doesn’t let his brain conjure up an idea of how Tony might take him home to take him apart, doesn’t think of Tony’s weight on him, those damned curls falling around his face as he leans over Peter, whispers, feverishly, deliriously, sweetheart - sweat slick skin, their bodies twisted up together in his college bed, that hand in his setting fire a fire on the skin on his back, his hips, buried in his hair, chanting, oh, sweetheart - he doesn’t. Honestly. And if he’s blushing all over, tasting his heartbeat on his tongue, well, then that’s between him and the things he isn’t drawing up in his mind’s eye.</p><p>It should be strange. It should. Tony Stark in his shared apartment kitchen, rummaging to overstuffed old-fashioned oak cabinets for some long-lost French press Peter’s roommate had brought with her and quickly abandoned when she’d learned that at a college for high-wired brainiacs, coffee is plenty and cheap and pretty much everywhere.</p><p>Not that she’s home much these days, juggling a truly mind-boggling GPA and a relationship with a cool, older Anthropology TA over at Harvard whose coffee machine makes an espresso not only much fancier the whatever they could brew with dollar store coffee powder, but also located in a much more up-scale apartment. One that, most importantly, they don’t have to share with tree other undergrads. Tony maneuvers his way through half-eaten packets of pop tarts and what Peter muses could, even for a bunch of nerds who survive mostly on pre-made food and library air, be a record amount of instant noodles, only stopping to regard the cereal he’s fished out of the cupboard warily, shrug and grab a handful, stuffing it into his mouth with more grace than the gesture ought to warrant, and nod, appraisingly. „Still good,“ he decides, mouth open and somehow talking and chewing.</p><p>Then, a winning yelp, and there it is, small and somewhat crooked, but mostly functional. He sets it down onto the counter. „Pete, I’m starting to worry. You need to be able to keep up a steady caffeine level at all times, being the scholar you are. Don’t tell me you survive on that god awful potion they sell as coffee on campus.“ „It’s not that bad, when you get used to it.“ „And you are? Used to it? That’s it, I’m buying you a proper machine.“ „Tony,“ he warns, glaring at Tony who’s putting the press on the stove. He won’t meet his eyes. „Appropriately priced and sized for your space, Pete. Don’t worry. But what’s the point to being friends with a rich bachelor if you don’t even get a decent cup of coffee out of it?“ „Yeah, I’m going to pretend you didn’t just imply I’m getting nothing out of this friendship. Besides,“ and Peter knows he’s being a little ballsy, but this, their easy banter, the domesticity of it all, it makes him think he can get away with it, „people might talk, Tones. What could a rich bachelor be getting out of buying a cute twenty-something expensive gadgets, huh? What’s the point to that, if you’re not getting some?“ And for a second he thinks he’s taken it too far, he’s shown Tony something he hadn’t been ready to see, something Peter himself isn’t ready to have him see, either, and - Tony laughs, a guttural thing, and admits: „Well played, kid. Well played.“ And they grin at each other a little maniacally, conspiratively. There’s nowhere else Peter would rather be.</p><p>They end up on the roof, clutching mismatched, slightly cracked cups in their hands, when Tony fishes a pack of cigarettes out of the side of his coat and puts their mugs down. „Don’t think I forgot that I owe you.“ And it doesn’t escape Peter’s notice that it’s the same brand he smokes. Or that it’s been opened, already, and a thought presents itself that he can’t seem to push away before it unfolds, not in the dark, looking out over the roofs, the wind mussing up Tony’s hair, and has it gotten longer, it must have, because it curls around his ears in a way that’s new, makes it look like Tony’s framed by oil slick ocean water in the night - it’s late and there is barely any light coming from the window in Peter’s room, and here they are, and it’s so good, so safe, and Peter hasn’t felt like a non-person in weeks now, so he lets himself think of Tony, alone in that apartment of his, sitting by the window and lighting a lonesome cigarette, wondering if this is what Peter tastes like.</p><p> </p><p>The image takes the air out of him, makes him shiver from chest to toe. „Kid, god, did you not bring a jacket? Here, take this, I’m toasty,“ and he strips out of his checkered coat and drapes it over Peter’s shoulders, drawing in the lapels to make sure he’s covered entirely, smoothing out the collar where it’s wrangled in the back, and Peter wishes he’d take those hands and put them in his hair, stroke his scalp with as much care, as much precision. But Tony draws back, and takes two cigarettes from the packet he’s still clutching, putting one between his lips, and the other one between Peter’s, whose hands are still nestled under the heavy wool of the coat. His thumb graces Peter’s lip for a breath, and Peter can’t help the shaky breath he draws. Then, Tony leans around him, fishing the lighter from a pocket on the other side of the coat, and his chest is touching Peter’s back while he rummages through. Fingers finally closing around the pale blue thing, he goes to move away, but Peter won’t let him. He leans back, connecting them back to chest again, and puts his weight in it. Tony sighs, and goes to fully shift his right leg so that he has Peter between his thighs, before resting his outstretched arm on his shoulder, face pressed against the side of Peter’s head, his breath painting the words against his ear as he murmurs, „Let me light this, then,“ and then it’s quiet except for the rattle of his heart and the click of the lighter being zapped, the buzz of lighter fluid evaporating into flame.</p><p> </p><p>Instead of moving back, Tony slots his arm against Peter’s chest, twisting his head forward to light his own smoke, and leaves it there, cigarette and lighter now both clutched in the hand he has against Peter’s front. Maybe the smoke is getting to his head, filling his brain with fire hazard things, but he catches himself thinking of Tony’s coat around his shoulders, those arms around him back in New York, down on Cornelia Street by the bodega, back upstate at the compound, wrapped up in Tony for everyone to see.</p><p>The faraway lights of the city blur his line of vision, twisting the scene into something irreal and transcendental, and Peter finds himself sending a wordless prayer out into the night that he’ll get to keep this. That they’ve found their way to infinity, that they’ve turned the corner and stumbled into eden, that in whatever plan the universe has for Tony Stark, he’s there, that the cosmos has carved a space for him, that he is no longer on borrowed time, his endeavors ultimately all futile against the way of all worlds. Begs that up there, out there, whatever lies behind reality isn’t smiling down on him sadly, with pity, at what lies ahead. And god, isn’t it so like him to ruin a good thing, but who’s to say that what gave him Tony won’t take him away again? And just like that, it’s all back. Peter is small and scared, and there is nothing he can do if the universe won’t let him keep Tony. He's powerless, helplessly struggling to stay afloat, stumbling through space blindly. And this time, Peter knows, knows it with certainty, a solid, heavy thing behind his ribs, that it would kill him.</p><p> </p><p>Having had a taste - it had done nothing to curb this hunger he has, pre-conscious acid thing of an ache, had only made him greedier. Because maybe, not even Tony can do anything but bet on the good will of the universe. Even if he wants to stay, who can say he’ll get to? And Peter is so, so tired of being at anyone’s mercy. He wants to think that if he’ll hold on tight enough, nothing in this universe could pry Tony out from under his hands. He doesn’t want to be afraid anymore. He wants to stop being so happy it turns right back to sad. He wants, and wants. Wants to crawl inside Tony’s body and stay there, wants to sew them together so tightly, hold onto Tony so closely that no force in this world or any other could separate them. But he can’t. He knows he can’t. So instead, he turns his head until his face is pressed to Tony’s throat, and he carves those prayers into soft skin with his mouth, prayers pressed onto flesh, begs all bones in Tony’s body to stay, please, stay - He doesn’t register he’s crying until Tony makes a wounded sound, more animal than human, and folds his palms around Peter’s head, his voice hoarse and pleading: „Pete, hey, kid, don’t cry. You’re okay. We’re okay. What’s wrong, sweetheart?“ And Peter hates himself for begging, for asking Tony, who’s given more than he can ever repay already, for one more impossible thing, but he needs to hear Tony say it. Even if it’s a lie. „You can’t leave again. You have to swear you’ll stay. I mean it, Tony, you’ll kill me. You can’t go again.“ And they’re both shaking, but Peter turns his body to fist his hands in Tony’s shirt, to pull him closer, still, and Tony keeps cradling his head as though it’ll turn to dust in his hands, and oh - „Pete, god, I won’t. You hear me? I’m here for as long as you want me. I swear, sweetheart, I swear.“</p><p>When Peter wakes up, he doesn’t know how they made it down from the roof, but they’re lying on top of his covers, Tony’s coat still around his shoulders and his arms still around Peter, holding on like he, too, is afraid that Peter will vanish if he doesn’t grasp him tight enough. And it’s, well, it’s not enough. Not enough to stitch back the pieces of his soul that have come undone, not quite, and maybe that’s a lot to ask of someone - even miracle made man, even Tony Stark, and perhaps that’s the final lesson Peter has to learn, that he can ask Tony for all kinds of sacrilege, but not to make him whole again. But it’s enough for now, enough to hold him upright, to have a world with Tony where he fits, a world no longer tilted on an axis, not walking on ceilings and passing through walls. It’s enough to think that maybe, he’ll learn to be okay again. Right here, with Tony, where time mellows down to a bearable pace, down to a speed he can keep up with, where it feels like the steps he takes are more than a mere dwindling, doomed effort to keep up. So Peter thinks, and he runs his palms down Tony’s chest, just to make sure, and yes - he can do it, he might just make it out alive, because at least now, he’s on solid fucking ground again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm feeding you well, today, kids. I had this one all ready to go, so I figured - why not? Tell me what you think, I love reading your comments.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. you drew stars around my scars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They don’t talk about it. Instead, they go about their day, and yet - something’s changed. Tony touches him, and it’s still all fairly innocent, but there’s a purpose there, an intent. It’s no longer playful touches to drive home jokes, no longer parental pats on the back. Tony touches Peter like he means it, like he wants to, like he can’t help himself but reach out. It’s no less exhilarating, having those hands on him. Each touch has lightning strike, to Peter. The weekend rushes past him in a blur of lab stints and coffee runs, and he’s still in Tony’s coat that hangs off him like an embrace. It even smells like him - the wool tinged with something warm, a smell like the taste of brandy, of cigars. They’re at the station when he realizes, with belated embarrassment, that he hadn’t asked at all. Just kept wearing it, like he has a right to. Like it means something. And it does, to Peter. He fears it shouldn’t, but it does. And it had felt as though he could, like he was getting away with something, with turning this into something it was not. The reality of it seems that much more daunting, suddenly. He has no claim to anything of Tony’s. Not that coat, not those precarious moments he’s been given, not the touches and glances. None of them are his to keep, his to lose. And yet here he’d been, taking them carelessly. It feels like he’s confessed to something, then.</p><p> </p><p>So he goes to take it off and doesn’t meet the other man’s eyes. But Tony’s hands on his arms stop him. „Keep it. I’ve seen that wardrobe of yours, and it’s only getting colder. Besides, I like the look of it on you.“ And Peterblushes, wonders, something hungry, greedy in his gut, if he means what Peter hears. If Tony likes Peter in something that is his. He drops his head, and wants to touch, wants to wrap himself around Tony, just once more before he has to let him go, suddenly afraid that it might just be the last time. But all of a sudden, he’s awfully unsure. Unsure if Tony’s been touching him because he can tell Peter needs it, or because he wants to, and unsure if he has it in himself to care which it is. He should care, shouldn’t he? He wants to care. And he does. Just - maybe not enough. He’s starved for every big and little thing he’s been given, and here’s that line, again, need against need. He needs, so much. Before anything. Needs to have this, more than he needs to know if it’s real. It ought to scare him, surely. Maybe, somewhere deep down, it does. If it is there at all, it’s buried too deep within this ravenous, terrifying hunger.</p><p> </p><p>But then, Tony sighs, and Peter’s eyes shoot up. Here in the afternoon sun, Tony looks golden, his hair like a halo, and he’s so, so beautiful, that face like marble, an apparition, and - he looks completely, utterly, heartbreakingly wrecked. Opens his mouth, and says nothing. Tries, again. Then: „It’s stupid, but - I keep thinking I might be seeing you for the last time. Side effects, I guess. The old brain barely had time to comprehend you were back, before - you know.“ And he huffs a joyless little laugh, and Peter has never seen Tony look so lost, so scared. Peter can’t stand it, instantaneously needs to soothe his pains, he has to, has never needed anything more, in that moment - so he crushes their chests together, arms wrapped around Tony’s neck. It’s strange to think, that this is now a thing that can be: Peter looking out for Tony - Peter being brave, for the both of them. But it settles something, in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Has Tony ever really had that? Sure, there’s Rhodey, and Happy. But neither of them know what he does. Has seen what he’s seen, know what’s behind that look on the older man’s face. Only Peter, he thinks, steadfast, proudly, almost, can guess the shape of his fears. It’s a heady feeling, this, of power, realized: He may not be able to dictate their destiny, but he can give Tony something solid, something real and resolute to hold onto. „You’re not going to get rid of me that easily, Tony. I just got you back.“ And at the noise he hears Tony make, pained, guttural, he twines his palms around his head, keeping him in place, and presses a lingering, hard kiss to his temple. „Call me when you get home,“ he whispers, „please.“ Tony’s nod is downright reverent, and he pushes himself into Peter’s chest with such voraciousness Peter might just choke on it, and doesn’t let go until he absolutely has to.</p><p> </p><p>Things settle. He finishes his thesis, newly invigorated by Tony’s challenging, his encouragement. His advisor calls it revolutionary, and Peter drinks up the pride in Tony’s eyes at that like he’s dying of thirst. It gets published in the leading magazine in his field, and May cries a little and hangs a cutout in a frame. His professors express their regret at his leaving, and he doesn’t care. His return to New York can’t come soon enough. Peter is - doing okay. It’s ups and downs mostly. He stumbles from one thing to the next, certain of one thing and then, the opposite. He knows what he wants but doesn’t if he wants to want it. It’s confusing and frustrating, but in the end there’s no place he’d rather be than with Tony. And he isn’t, right now. Fear for a taste is an easy trade when he is. The longer they’re apart, the more reckless it seems. He smokes too much, and drinks too often, but he talks to Tony every day.</p><p> </p><p>May calls him on a Tuesday when he’s packing up his things, packing boxes and stacking books. She’s timid in a way she rarely is, and it makes Peter halt his movements. It takes her a while, awkwardly making conversation, to admit to having an ulterior motive, besides wanting to hear his voice. Happy finally asked. For them to move in together. She wants to. Thinks she’s ready, to leave that little flat behind. Doesn’t say, but Peter can hear it, regardless: I’m ready to move on, from him. She’s scared, of course. That he’ll be upset. He grew up in that little old apartment, after all. But he isn’t. Peter knows a thing or two about ghosts. And that place had been full of them, for both of them. He tells her as much, and they cry on the line until they begin to laugh at themselves. She says she’ll wait a while, until he has a place of his own, back in the city, her friend from work, Tommy, is looking for a place, anyway - she’s talked to the landlord, they’ll move in once Peter’s ready, there’s no rush. Peter interrupts her. „May, you go ahead and move in already. Tell Tommy he can move in asap. I’ve got a place to crash.“</p><p> </p><p>And he does, Tony confirms a little later. <em>Sure,</em> the text he gets reads, <em>it’s pretty much yours anyway. Text me a list, I’ll stack up on some spider sustenance. Talk to you tomorrow, roomie.</em></p><p> </p><p>Peter’s seen and read enough to know the implications of being roommates with someone you’re obscenely in love with. It’s probably the dumbest fucking thing he’s ever done. Still, he can’t help himself. The part of him that’s occupied with self preservation seems to have taken a permanent backseat to the part that aches to be close to the man. So what if he’s moving in with the guy. No place to hide but plain sight, right? And if he already feels a little crazy, with all the touching and talking, messing with his head, making him see things that aren’t there - then that’s between him and his inability to make good decisions.</p><p> </p><p>Tony picks him up with a car, and they drive down to New York together. It’s a good four hour trip. And Peter, well - he figured if he’s going to be staying with Tony, he’d have to be able to get through one road trip together. But it’s a lot. Being so close. With Tony, driving cooly, carefully, the picture of control, but singing along agreeably to Peter’s godawful playlist, smiling and laughing - Peter commits these hours to memory. He wants to immortalize the way the setting sun draws patterns onto Tony’s skin. The gleam in his eyes when he smiles at Peter, all eyes, no teeth. A dark and flickering Hades, lit up in flames, alight with joy, for his lover, returned. He wants those flames to burn the bones off of him, wants to eat the fruit and be bound forever. He’d follow Tony anywhere, be it New York or the riverbanks of the Styx.</p><p> </p><p>It feels grotesquely intimate - the notion that anyone should be able know anyone like that, at all. The enormity of this thing within him. The idea that he should know Tony like that, to feel the things he feels, and to ever be ready to let him go, again. It feels like he’s cracked a secret code, like he’s unveiled the whispers of the universe, then: He’s sure, even just for a second, then and there, that no one could possibly ever have felt that way. Remembers thinking of the things men go to war for, back in New York. <em>No</em>, he decides. It’s never small things. Something burning, something savage. Something like that relentless hunger in his chest, that unyielding softness he holds for Tony. It doesn’t seem far off, then: He’d watch the world burn, for Tony. He’d set fire to it, himself. If anyone else had looked at someone else and thought - I’d wreck it all, no regrets, for you, always for you, if anyone had ever loved anyone the way he loves Tony - the world would’ve gone up in flames a thousand times over. He’s sure of it.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t seem impossible at all, in the front seat of this car, in the fading light. That Tony may look at him and think it too, think: <em>Let it burn, then.</em> In a way, he’d done just that, hadn’t he? When he’d risked it all, for one more chance to bring Peter back. And Peter can taste the confession on his tongue. How easy it would be, now, to say - <em>Tony. I’d have it all turn to ash for a chance to hold your hand. </em>But all he can do is stare at him in the limelight and think, <em>for a kiss, I’d pull the trigger myself.</em></p><p> </p><p>For graduation, he gets Peter a watch. It’s a good and solid thing, a little old, nothing insane. It’s an atypical gift, for Tony, he thinks, until he notices the familiarity, so he turns it around, disbelieving, and there it is. The inscription he remembers asking his dad about, when he was barely old enough to talk, the one he’d caught Ben staring at, sometimes, wistfully, when he’d started wearing it after his father’s death. It had been one of the things that had been taken, when Ben - he has no idea how Tony’s managed to get ahold of it. It had been in a little box with a note, on his bed. Tony had gone to bed and let him find it, had probably wanted him to have time to react, privately - but Peter grips it tightly, and he stumbles out the door, right up to Tony’s, knocks once, before letting himself in. Tony’s sitting up in bed, about to speak when he sees Peter, knuckles white from how he’s holding onto the watch, so he makes room on the bed and Peter sits down on it, and he doesn’t know what to say, where to start, at all. He whispers, thank you, thank you, Tony, how - and then he’s crying - it’s happiness and it’s regret, and he’s apologizing, wiping at his face, but Tony shushes him, carding gentle hands through his hair.</p><p> </p><p>He’s never talked to anyone about Ben. Not even May. He knows she feels guilty about that. But back then, she’d been so, so sad. So desperate. She hadn’t had it in herself, to push. Wouldn’t have known what to say. It’s not like she was coping, either. And money, right after, had been so, so tight they couldn’t afford to send him to a therapist, not without health insurance. And May’s had barely covered regular doctor’s appointments. Much less a New York shrink’s rates. Ned had tried to make him talk, once or twice. But Peter hadn’t, so he’d stopped. Left him alone. So, it’s a first, when he tells Tony. He starts with this: Ben had been there, the day he was born. And he’d looked at that tiny infant he was, and into those eyes, opening, for the first time, and he’d said, oh, look, he looks like me. I hope he doesn’t get my habits, that kid. And his mom had said, Ben, I hope he does. I hope he gets them all. How they’d named him after him, then, and Ben had cried like a baby.</p><p> </p><p>He tells him how he never cried when Ben was holding him. How he’d sat down with Peter for countless hours, explaining concepts to him that were far beyond a kindergardener’s scope. How he’d had to start getting books from the library to answer Peter’s questions. He always did, never complained. Not once did he not give Peter an answer he’d promised. Not after night shifts and over time, not when the bills had piled up. He’d made the time. Tells Tony about when he died. About the shame, the guilt. How he’d wished, sometimes, he’d never loved Ben at all, if losing him was that painful. How it had felt stupid, careless, to have let himself, after his mom and dad. How sometimes, he’d even hated Ben, a little, for making him care so much. And Tony listens, and he keeps stroking his hair, voice gentle, rhythmic in his ear.</p><p> </p><p>Peter tells it all, the good, the pathetic, the ugly, and Tony doesn’t say, <em>Peter, stop, don’t say those things</em>, doesn’t tell him to get a grip, just smiles and nods, and holds him tight. Peter’s got an ocean of dread, but he knows Tony won’t let him drown, will keep him warm and safe in the flames of his gaze. Of his touch. He tell Peter about his mother and her singing, how they’d roll up the carpets to dance. About his father, breaking the cycle of shame with Morgan, about guilt and seeing him, again, during the heist.</p><p> </p><p>And when Peter asks to stay, he lets him. Keeps those arms around him and lets Peter rest his head in the crook of his neck, recounting childhood tales, half English, half Italian, and the sleep Peter sleeps in the arms of the man he loves is dreamless, peaceful. Not once does he think of what will happen when inevitably, morning comes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It's been raining non-stop, so I've been drinking too much coffee and listening to too much Phoebe Bridgers, and ended up writing another chapter for you. If you need a chapter soundtrack, give her album Punisher a listen. If Garden Song or Moon Song don't make you tear up a little, you might be a little repressed (don't worry, we all are, here). Let me know what you think, your incredibly kind comments have truly made writing this that much more special.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. but now I'm bleeding</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He wakes up alone. Immediately, he’s hit with a wave of shame that makes him want to curl into himself and never exit this room. Peter is unsure if he can look Tony in the eye. It’s not that it hadn’t been good, talking to Tony. The problem is that it had been. Good and easy and probably something that’s never going to happen again. He feels pathetic, greedy - like he keeps asking things of Tony the man can’t say no to. Like he’s revealed just how deep it runs, this need of his. But hiding, he supposes, will only make things worse. So he forces himself up, and slowly makes his way to the kitchen. Tony greets him with a smile and a wave. Pushes a mug of coffee across the counter in his direction. Peter groans, and takes a big sip. He can feel those eyes on him, and wills himself not to bolt. Instead, he gathers whatever courage he has and looks up. The look that’s on him is full of concern. Not pity, not second hand embarrassment, just - concern. It’s a blow to the chest. He swallows, runs his index finger over the rim of the ceramic. „I’m okay, Tony. Really. I just - I’ve never really talked about Ben, you know, since. I didn’t mean to put that on you. I know you didn’t ask for that.“</p><p> </p><p>His gaze turned downwards, he’s too far up in his head to hear Tony approach. He does feel those hands on his shoulders, though. Could never miss the current they have shooting down his back. Tony’s face is so gentle, so kind, Peter feels like he’s not supposed to see it, at all. It’s too much, too intimate. He doesn’t deserve it, one bit. „Peter, if I haven’t made this perfectly clear, I want to do it now. You’re not imposing, and you’re not a burden. If it ever gets too much, I’ll let you know. Other than that, assume that I want to be there in whichever way I can.“ He brushes a strand of hair back from Peter’s forehead, then steps back. „Besides, haven’t you heard? We’re not doing the whole shame thing anymore.“ Peter just - nods.</p><p> </p><p>They decide to get breakfast. Despite Tony’s little speech, Peter hasn’t quite shaken the feeling yet. This sense that if he doesn’t pace himself, doesn’t stop asking the man for things he has no right to ask for, he’ll ruin this. Suck this perfectly good thing dry soon before long, and then, this cursed little taste is all he’ll get. And that’s - just not an option. It’s too good. It’s too good, having Tony, like this, like whatever this is, too perfect. Too safe, too secure. He won’t lose this. Not because he can’t get a fucking hold of himself, can’t stop himself from reaching out, can’t resist just one more bite. If only his hunger were of a less gripping kind. If only he could stop needing more and more, an animal, driven wild by the smell of blood. But Tony, he’s - he seems perfectly content. Oblivious to Peter’s inner turmoil. He orders them some more coffee, croissants and cream, and - a thousand other little things Peter thinks he may not be culinarily versed enough to appreciate fully.</p><p> </p><p>And how’s a boy supposed to be frugal, when Tony laughs and smiles that honey drip smile of his, one arm draped over the back of his chair, talking with his hands and eyes. There’s some jam in the corner of his mouth and Peter can practically watch himself wipe it off with his thumb, grazing those lips, or - licking it off him, seeing, for himself if he can still taste the sweetness on his tongue. God, he hopes that it’s not written all over his face. Here he goes again, mooning over the man, pushing lines he is sure he shouldn’t. It’s just a tad bit too easy, to imagine. Taking his hand in his, leaning back into the almost embrace. Kissing the coffee from his lips. Going back home, together, intertwined in the bed they shared, last night, hands and legs twisted up in linen, in each other.</p><p> </p><p>Tony nudges him, a little. „Where’s that head of yours at, Spiderling?“ His face is close, affectionate. Peter leans in a little, too. „Oh, nowhere. You’ve got some jam, there, old man.“ He’s teasing. It’s a deflection tactic he’s learned from the best. Still, it seems to work. Tony begins to run his thumb over his lips, the corners. Doesn’t catch it. On an impulse, Peter takes his hand in his, and guides it to the smear. Tony catches it, at last, and he smiles, a warm, intimate thing, and squeezes Peter’s hand in thanks. He’s so starstruck he lets go a beat too late. If Tony notices, he hides it well. Peter wants to ravish him.</p><p> </p><p>When they get up, a hand settles on the back of his neck, for a breath. It’s gone before it registers, and still, it has him breathless, heart skipping ahead of his feet. He plays it as cool as he can, and only trips over his feet once.</p><p> </p><p>Peter is halfway through lunch with Ned and MJ when he receives a text. It’s his old roommate from MIT. The text is just his name in all caps, and a screenshot from tmz. He barely registers the headline, eyes jumping to the picture. It Tony and him, and - Tony’s face is mostly obscured by the hand Peter’s clutching in his, but Peter, he’s - he looks absolutely, hopelessly enamored. According to the article, it all started on twitter. Someone had snapped a picture of them at breakfast, and it kicked off a storm. There’s another picture from the train station in Cambridge, Tony clutching him close to his chest. A photo of Peter, entering the building, wine in hand. Hands in his hair, down on the street. Another: Peter, carrying boxes up those stairs. Fuck. Fucking fuck. This isn’t good, it can’t be. He curses out loud, this time.</p><p> </p><p>He shows them the pictures, the headlines and comments. Buries his face in his hands and emits a groan. „So,“ MJ says, and her tone is carefully impassive, „they think you’re like, a thing. Isn’t that what you want?“ Ned nods along in agreement. Peter shakes his head, alarmed. „You - don’t want that, or,“ she asks, slowly, glancing at Ned in confusion. „No,“ Peter cries out, „of course I do. But I have no idea if he does. If this is like, the mentor supreme package, or, some sort of guilt thing, or, like - whatever it may be. He’s going to know and it’s going to scare him away. That can’t happen, MJ. It can’t. I couldn’t bear it.“ Whatever’s there in his voice, it has Michelle soften up on him - which, okay. Maybe he needs to calm down. She puts her hand on his, and starts, sympathetically: „Peter. The man clearly loves you, in whichever way. You won’t scare him away just like that.“ „Yeah,“ Ned agrees. „Give him some credit. There’s a reason you’ve like, been caught up in him for years now.“</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>For once, he hopes they’re right. But still, it feels - like the other shoe’s dropped. Like something’s been set in motion and now he’s helpless to stop it from spiraling further and further out of control.</p><p> </p><p>They aren’t. Something changes that day. Anyone else might barely notice the shift, small and impercetible, more whisper than word. It’s seismic, to Peter. He’s more afraid than he’s ever been- they’re tipped off balance, now, and Peter - he doesn’t know how to fix it, at all. Tony’s been careful around him. Collected, calm. Too calm. Hasn’t mentioned the media storm that’s been brewing, except for a short, dismissive comment, a, <em>oh, yeah, well, they’ll smell romance everywhere.</em> And yet, he’s stopped touching Peter. It’s like a spell, broken. No more pats on the back, no hugs. He meets Peter’s eyes, rarely. When he gets up, Tony’s retired to his room, gone out for a meeting. He’s avoiding him, and it has Peter raw and restless. He feels stupid, because he should’ve known better. He should have. He did. And yet, he fucked it up. He’s gone and ruined it all. He feels sick, his want turned to an acid trickle in his gut, and when he sleeps, it’s vicious fever visions, the most mundane nightmares - Tony, leaving, Tony, gone.</p><p> </p><p>Most of all, it’s disorienting, the way Tony is so casual about it, the way he can just - stop it all, and say nothing. It makes Peter want to scream at him until he coughs up blood, to throw things, to cry. Anything so Tony’ll admit to the gravity of this. Doesn’t he see it, at all? Doesn’t it tear him apart? Because whatever had been brewing there, those roaring waves. It hadn’t been nothing. No, it hadn’t been nothing at all. Not to Peter.</p><p> </p><p>But he wakes up alone and goes to bed alone. When they talk, it’s stilted, all the effortlessness gone. His skin is alight with tension, buzzing, brimming with something anxious, something dreadful. He catches himself losing his grip on the world around him. The days, they blur together, their relentless, cruel stream unbroken. The world’s tilted anew, and all his practice, the ways he’d learned to maneuver this nightmare scape, they’re gone, too. He chases lows, not highs, wants to let that ache burn through him. Hates himself for thinking it, but does, regardless - it’s a little like Tony’s died, all over again.</p><p> </p><p>It’s MJ who snaps him out of it. They’re lying on her rug, passing a bottle of cheap raspberry vodka between the two of them that Peter finds truly disgusting - and god, trust Tony to turn Peter into a bit of a snob in a matter of months - and Peter lights up another cigarette, gags a little, sick to his stomach from the smoke. She let him smoke inside. Said he looked like he needed it. Mostly, Peter thinks, she’d known he’d do it either way - here or somewhere else, alone. And he would have - if only all his hideaways weren’t gone, if only there was someplace left, to wallow in this pity, undisturbed, safely. There’s nowhere left to fall apart. Nothing compares to the space he’d had, in Tony’s arms. They’ve finished a pack between them, air heavy with smoke and throats burnt raw, when Michelle takes his hand, and says: „Peter, here’s one thing that doesn’t add up to me. Tony, he - he did all that of his own volition. He let you in. Why would he punish you for taking what he’s offering?“ And Peter halts at that. Stupidly, he’d never even - it had never felt like Tony offering anything. He’d been so sure that it was him, taking and taking and as long as he didn’t push too far, Tony’d give in.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe that’s how it has to be, a wildfire love. A little daunting, a little painful. To have someone in your veins like that, like an illness, a sickly sweet cancer thing, with no cure, no remission. Michelle had raised her brows at that, turned to him, recalled. „Thats’ Jane Austen, no? If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.“ He hadn’t replied. Didn’t trust himself to.</p><p> </p><p>„Peter - you have this thing, where you think you’re asking for something unspeakable. I think it’s - guilt, still. And still, he gave you all of it. And you didn’t even - You didn’t even ask, I mean. All those pictures, it’s him, touching you. Has it ever occurred to you maybe Tony thinks the same? That what he’s asking for is something he shouldn’t. That he’s scared he let himself take too much, more than you might want to give?“</p><p> </p><p>And Peter thinks of paint streaked faces, of night light admissions. <em>It just feels like I got you hooked, so you’d want me around.</em> Of needs that meet needs and maybe, once in a lifetime, match up. At least a little. Of what he knows about Tony - whose entire life, the first time around, had been outrunning his demons, those imagined sins. How he’d kept trying to repay a debt long settled. And maybe Peter’s stopped dealing in fault, but not in guilt, and - maybe, they’re past that, too. And how he knows a thing or twenty about that, to look at yourself and see only the ugly parts, to have a hunger and think, depravity. To want anything and have it be shameful, just because it’s you, daring to want at all. To feel like to want is to ruin. Like your touch alone will turn what’s loved to dust.</p><p> </p><p>Still, it takes some more help, to send him along the way. Stark Industries’ annual charity gala is long underway when he steps foot in the tower. Tony is off, mingling, laughing that fake laugh of his so mechanically, Peter feels a little sick. He greets Pepper, kisses her glowing cheek, takes a spin with Wanda, who’s turning heads in a sparkly white gown, her red hair cascading on and on. And still, he keeps his eyes on Tony. Watches him make his rounds, disappear into himself a little more each time. He knows he hates these people. These snotty trust fund kids pretending to be adults, playing dress up and pretend, drunk and high on pills, giving tiny parts of all their wealth in an attempt to safe face. Like half of them don’t evade taxes, or pump their fortunes into the campaigns of senators and presidents who’ll make sure they get to keep all the rest - each filthy, little cent. It’s always been bizarre, to be here. Peter could’ve had insurance all his life, probably, if only half of them had paid a percent more in taxes.</p><p> </p><p>But without Tony, it’s nothing short of hellish. It’s Strange who rescues him from some glassy eyed Hedgefund manager, droning on and on about how glad he is to be supporting these worthy causes. To help those who can’t help themselves, and hadn’t Peter grown up in one of those rough neighborhoods, too? How he was the exception to the rule, surely. His nose crumpled in disdain, Strange tells the man a flimsy tale of needing help with drinks, and then they’re off. „God,“ he remarks, lowly, „these people are pathetic.“ Peter snorts. You don’t say, it says. They don’t talk much. Just stand there, in a corner, making small talk. It’s when Strange clears his throat Peter realizes he hadn’t been listening at all, eyes tracking Tony through the room, mind buzzing. Something must be showing in the way he bows his head, apologetically.</p><p> </p><p>„You know, Peter. There’s a lot you don’t know about how Stark was brought back,“ he starts, and Peter’s eyes shoot up in alarm. „And really, some of it is things you don’t know because I can’t tell you, but mostly it’s things I don’t understand well enough myself to begin and explain. But - I wasn’t joking, that night. We did need you. Only you, in fact. To bring him back. It couldn’t have been anyone but you.“ There isn’t a single thing Peter can come up with to say, to that. He just gapes at him, a little dumbly, frozen in place. „Do with that whatever you will, Parker. But I thought you should know.“ With that, he pats him on the cheek, condescendingly, just once, and walks away.</p><p> </p><p>He drinks a glass of champagne, then another. Fidgets, asks Pepper to dance. He can hardly feel his body move, with how his mind is raging with what Strange has told him. He’s hyperaware of Tony’s presence in the room, tracking his whereabouts subconsciously. Finally, he’s had enough. Excuses himself from yet another brain-meltingly boring conversation, and walks over to where he can see Tony visibly strain to keep up the conversation with Secretary Ross and some other red cheeked dignitary. „Tony,“ he says, keeping his voice light and pleasant, shoulders set straight. Looks Tony in the eye and deliberately - recklessly, his mind supplies - puts his hand on the small of the other man’s back. „There you are.“ Tony’s gaze is unreadable, unmoving. He stares, without blinking, at Peter, and Peter thinks, oh, god, this was a mistake, but then - an upward flicker of his mouth, something settling, and then, there’s an arm stretching across his shoulder, fingers coming to rest on his upper arm. „Having a good time,“ he asks, tone light and teasing. To Peter, the sarcasm drops heavily off of every word. Ross and his friend seem oblivious to it all. „Actually, Tones, I’d kill for a smoke. Care to join me?“</p><p> </p><p>And with that, it all slots back into place. Tony spends the night whispering into his ear about the other guests - who’s snorting what in the bathroom, who’s cheating on their spouse with a foreign embassador. There’s a hand at the back of his nape, sometimes, fingers that brush his as he gets passed another glass, and Tony laughs and laughs at Peter’s jokes, his impressions of stuffy old white men waltzing around like their best years haven’t long since passed. It turns out to be a good night, all in all. Not that he remembers much except the roaring of his heart, the heat in his chest, those eyes, on him, again, finally. He yawns, once, and the look he gets is amused. „Wanna leave?“ And Peter nods, a little light headed from the drinks and the closeness, and says, yeah. Yeah, Tones, let’s go home. He can’t tell for sure, but he could swear he sees Tony stiffen at that, for a second. At how Peter, a little tipsy, had said home. Home, Tones. Let’s go home.</p><p> </p><p>They catch a cab and Peter lets Tony put him in the backseat, buckle him in. He thinks of being brave, of letting the world prove you wrong. Thinks, head spinning, if Borges is right, if we are the things we love, then this is what will remain, of him, when they’re all dead and gone, Tony, just a little undone, smiling his most private smile. Those eyes, a testament to how once, forever ago, there’d been a man named Peter Parker, and he’d loved so much it had eaten him whole. Those hands, they’re shrines, they’re future ruins, they’re love, immortalized. This love, he thinks, it changed the world. Not burned it all, but birthed, again. Because that’s what men go to war for, isn’t it? Those loves, too big for just one frame, or two. And maybe the world is made of love, after all, of a gentleness, that comes not from never having bled, but being wounded and chosing, still, to love.</p><p> </p><p>Tony’s face is half-hidden in the shadows of the city, passing by. There’s a sense of anticipation about him, something rough, unguarded. Like his body won’t quite keep him inside - an animal on prowl, muscles strained, about to be in motion. He looks like he’s waiting. And maybe, he is. It’s a heady feeling. Peter feels drunk, possessed and so he takes Tony’s hand in his, between their bodies, on that leather seat. Runs his thumb along his knuckles, heart pounding in his ears, a countdown. It’s this, he decides, that’s worth it all. Finds, that for a moment, it seems plausible. That this thing inside, it’s in him, too. If it had been him, he thinks, I’d have found a way, too. <em>I’d cheat the universe a million times over, for you.</em></p><p> </p><p>The man doesn’t speak, just turns his head until they’re eye to eye. Leans back, the back of his head on the leather headrest. He looks like an Athenian prince, something to lead gods astray, hair like tar black river water, spilling. Peter unbuckles his belt, inches closer, and puts his head on his shoulder like he’s wanted to, a million times before. Warmth bleeds between their bodies, spills from where they touch. Tony gives him a look that is all awe, a lot of disbelief, and doesn’t let go of his hand.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Kids, I am so excited for the upcoming chapters. I really think you're going to like what's coming. Thank you for your kind comments, as always, let me know what you think.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. baby, kiss it better</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>We‘re in the home stretch now, folks. Can’t wait to show you what I‘ve got in store for you. I know I gave you a slow, slow burn, but I promise the payoff will be worth it. As always, let me know what you think!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Time passes, almost despite itself. Tony’s birthday rolls around, quietly. At Peter’s insistence, he has a party. He’d been reluctant, sure. But Peter knows there’s little to celebrate, these days. Leave it to Tony to have some minor freak out about some symbol of aging. In Peter’s book, nothing calls for a celebration more than the fact that they’re still alive. All of them, sure, but - especially Tony. Peter could throw a banquet for that, every day. And yes, there’s some debate on how old Tony’s actually turning. Turns out there’s some confusion around these things, still. It’s not every day you come back to life, five years later. Unlike the ones of them who’d returned after the blip, Tony’s resurrection remains a singularity. There’s no rule to follow, no guideline. Rhodes insists Tony’s as old as his birth certificate implies he is. Mostly, it’s to see that appalled look on his friend’s face, Peter muses. Wanda suggests waiting for the anniversary of his resurrection - and celebrating his first birthday. Tony likes the idea, but Peter refuses. Says it would be nothing but a strategy for Tony to get out of celebrating, after all. In the end, they don’t settle on an age. Just set a date and and a place.</p><p> </p><p>There’s no big dinner at an upscale restaurant, no ball at the SI headquarters. Instead, Tony had sent a text to all the Avengers and the few friends he has, outside of those. Told Peter to invite some of his own. „The little revolutionary and her girlfriend, Carlota’s niece. And your guy in the chair,“ he’d said. It had irked Peter, a little. Like Tony’d asked him to invite some other kids for him to hang out with. Like he couldn’t stand his own amongst the other adults. He knows he’s being sensitive. That Tony wants him to be comfortable, mainly. It’s just that he’d thought by now, Tony ought to understand that the person he’s most comfortable around is him.</p><p> </p><p>Still, he’s glad they’re doing this. He knows Tony talks to Happy, has lunch with Rhodey, every now and then. But mostly, he’s been with Peter. And as much as he loves that - he doesn’t want Tony to be lonely. No - he wants Tony to stop forcing himself to be lonely. To stop holding the people that love him at arm’s length. Okay, and maybe there’s a bit of self-interest involved there, too. But he means it. Tony would never admit to it, but he craves the affection. He loves like it’s second nature, headfirst, with little presence of mind. What doesn’t come easy to him is letting himself be loved.</p><p>And more than that, the man has been in a constant state of flux ever since he came back, some sense of unconcerned, indifferent detachment. As much as Peter revels in this, them, alone, unbothered, this place they’ve built from rubble, ruins, where all rules are their own - he knows that they can’t go on relying only on one another. Had thought of MJ, of Ned. How they’d helped him, those last couple of months. Now, that he’s finally let them. And it’s been good. To not only have support, but an entire system of it. Someone to talk to, too, about the insanity of this thing he has with Tony. So he’s wondered, lately. Who Tony can turn to, when it’s not Peter, when it can’t be him. And maybe Peter’s a little afraid, too, that this thing - if it goes sideways, there need to be things Tony can do. People he can turn to. It’s a sort of last step of truly coming back to life, he muses. Mundane attachments - friends and family. People to stay for. And okay, yeah, Peter wishes, hopes, that Tony has that. In him, at least. But he can’t be sure, not really. He won’t take any chances, not when it comes to this. He just got him back. And if Peter has to force his hand a little so the man he loves doesn’t start to slowly slip away, again, he’ll do it, gladly.</p><p> </p><p>The text Tony’d sent had just read this: <em>As I’m officially back by popular demand, the people have asked for a party for my upcoming something-th birthday. Don’t bring presents. See you at our place, Saturday at 8. </em>Peter had choked on his own breath, reading it. Its off-handedness, the casualty with which Tony must have typed it out. How he’d composed it without second thought, and had written <em>our place</em>. And it is, isn’t it? Theirs. Peter hasn’t even started looking for a place of his own. Tony never brought it up. Still, it has him a little breathless, has him both unreasonably touched and embarrassingly turned on. He has half a mind to storm over there, to where Tony’s sat on their couch, and drop to his knees right on the living room floor. Show Tony just how much he appreciates their simple domesticity.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a little pathetic, that this should be his undoing: Not those talented hands, that sharp tongue, the roman curls. Just this: The effortless intimacy. If he’d needed any proof that this thing, this living together, mornings and nights, together, sun lit smiles and stolen glances, was messing with his head, he’d gotten it then. He can almost hear Michelle laughing at him in his head. But who is she to talk. After all, she’d gone and fallen in love with her roommate just the same.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They’re crammed onto the balcony, smoking and whispering, hushed voices vanishing into the night. There’s a tune on inside that gently vibrates off of the glass to their backs, something slow and dark. It makes him think of warmth in a wave of cold, of reds, purples. Under them, the city is rustling in that quiet, soothing way Peter missed so dearly, back in Cambridge. It’s alive and beating along to a million different hearts, flicker beats between the concrete steps, those cinderblock walls. Across the street, a couple kisses each other goodbye. Somewhere, someone’s singing their baby to sleep. Inside, their friends and family laugh and sway, and right here, next to him is Tony, humming along to the song that’s playing, and they’re touching, shoulders to knees. Michelle tells a story of one of her professor’s - Peter hasn’t been paying enough attention to know why, but he laughs along with the others. Wanda keeps conjuring up glimmer lights, like miniature fireworks, spilling from her palms. There’s a soft wind making them drift off sideways, into the pitch black of the night. And then there’s a shuffle, to his right, an arm shifting, and then there’s hands in his hair, drawing circles into his scalp, the back of his neck.</p><p> </p><p>For the very first time, it hits him that it’s this that he stuck around for, through all those cursed, fucked up years. His makeshift family in the living room, on this balcony, with all their mangled hearts and burnt out brains, the man he loves right here, with him. For the longest time, it had felt like it had all been in vain. All they’d sacrificed, all that had been lost. And for what? So those who hadn’t died could waste away, anyway, wishing they had. So they could drag their grief-borne bodies from one week to the other, alive and dead, at once, mere ghoulish shadows of the people they used to be, haunting once familiar streets. Because the world had ended, yes. But they made do, he thinks, didn’t they. Peter can see it, now, with sudden clarity: There’s something divine in the things that grow, to spite destruction. It’s an epiphany, right then: He’s glad he’s still here, for this.</p><p> </p><p>And it’s nothing short of a miracle, really. After years and years of struggling against an imagined downward tide, of running for his life, from this, this wicked sadness, from what felt like certain death, of living breath to burning breath, he’s - he’s stopped surviving for the sake of it, and now, he finds, he’s just living. He never thought he would again. And it’s the most mundane way to learn you no longer wish you weren’t here, at all - a smoke break in the night, a hand in his hair. It’s two for two, now, he realizes, eyes burning with this big, impossible feeling. Tony’s brought him back twice, now. The enormity of it banishes all else, for a minute.</p><p> </p><p>And for that minute, Peter thinks of nothing. Barely notices the others getting up, can’t even hear the clicking of the door over the his own pulse. There’s a few flicker lights left, twirling aimlessly above their heads, and there’s another song playing, wistful and warm, and Peter turns his head a little, so that he can look at Tony. Always at Tony. <em>Hi, Tony,</em> he thinks. <em>You saved my life, you know. </em>Thinks, too, that maybe, he would’ve had a shot, at not wanting him so goddamn much if he weren’t so fucking beautiful, like this. Loves him so much he can’t breathe around it. Is so goddamn glad he made it here, to see him like this. Admits to himself that he hadn’t, almost. No, he decides, then. He never had shot, at all. His head is slow and simmering with desire, with that familiar need. For a moment, barely more than a breath, it doesn’t feel that monstrous at all, this ache like a magnetic field, a force of nature, drawing him in. Like he won’t have to pry open his own chest, shatter his brittle ribs, to make room for it. It makes him dizzy, this urge to pull Tony in closer and closer. To disappear into him. Wonders if he’d let him, if he asked.</p><p> </p><p>He swallows, and Tony traces the movement with his eyes. <em>Oh</em>, he thinks. His gaze flickers to his lips, just once, less than a second. There's all the wine cursing through his veins, blurring his vision, sending searing waves of desire spilling to his chest. With the way the world’s reduced to this, a balcony in Bushwick, it seems possible, for a blink. Turned brave he chases the feeling, moves in a little closer, until he can see the speckle of those lights reflected back in Tony’s bourbon eyes. It’s his turn to swallow. And the sound of it, out here, is a declaration in the quiet of the night. A signal like a gunshot. He’s sure of it, right then: Our bloods, sweetheart, he thinks, sing the same ancient song. He won’t remember what he meant by that, later. Just how true it had felt, for a moment.</p><p> </p><p>And so time slows down to this: Moving closer, still. His eyes, fluttering shut. A hand on the back on his neck, not to push, not to pull, but to ground, gentle pressure, building, and moving closer, still, and thinking, we’ll get lost in here, go mad, forever, in the slow burn stretch in-between, like fists that never land, like time itself, but Tony hasn’t moved away, not a bit, and they’re home, and Tony’s alive and so is Peter, and then - the door to the balcony opens with another click, and MJ sticks her head outside. „Come on, we’re playing a game, and I need you two nerds on my team.“</p><p> </p><p>Naturally, a team made up of a bunch semi-professional know-it-alls is a winning one. It’s no surprise they’re crushing it at charades, not really. Not even with how Michelle sways a little on her feet, with Tony’s breath thick with booze. What is surprising is the way he and Tony work, like they share a brain, like they’ve been doing this forever. Or maybe - maybe it isn’t. He’d always figured they ran on the same interface, that whatever language their brains operated on, it was the same, one command flowing faultlessly from one to the other. No intermediates. But, god - he says one word, and gives him a look, and Tony yells out the answer. It’s - it’s hot, is what it is. The way they work with each other seamlessly, with this uncanny familiarity - reading each other’s bodies with ease, adding up invisible clues. Peter can’t help it, he has to think - if they’re this good at a fucking party game, where else this could come in handy, how well they’d play off of each other in another setting, something more private, a little less ambiguous. </p><p> </p><p>And for a second there, with that look Tony gives him, a little heady, a little breathless - Peter thinks, maybe, he sees it too. The thrill of it is brutal, of meeting Tony’s gaze head on, and thinking <em>God, Tony, just think of all the fun things we could do</em>, daring him to read his mind. He thinks he sees something reverent in his face, something akin to fear. Like he’s witness to something sacred, something holy, something that has no name, in any human tongue - when he looks at him.</p><p> </p><p>They win in a landslide. MJ, ever the fierce competitor, slams into him with a hug and a scream. Pumping her fists, she even wraps her arms around Tony from the side. He seems stunned by that, but pats her on the back. „You know,“ she drawls, „you’re not half bad, Stark.“ He rises to the challenge. „Oh? And that to a capitalist pig, huh?“ „Oh, don’t be modest. I believe in redemption. And you’ve been working hard at yours.“ A pat on his chest, both conciliatory and condescending. Still, she means it. Peter knows. She’d given Tony the official stamp of approval when he’d gotten involved with the Justice Democrats, and outright told Peter to go for it after learning he’d endorsed Bernie for President. Tony chuckles at that. But Peter can tell he’s touched. That it means something to him, having Peter’s friend approve. „Okay, then, Michelle X. I’ve got some whiskey you may like. Come on.“</p><p> </p><p>And god, the wave of affection that washes over him at that almost takes him off his feet. Tony and Michelle, sat on the floor, drinking sinfully expensive whiskey out of novelty mugs, laughing hysterically. Aurora catches him staring, and it takes the sound of the shutter for him to snap out of it. „This is fun,“ she teases, pushing the lever on her camera. „It’s like a case study in longing.“ Peter blushes, but rolls his eyes. Like she’s so much better. Here she is, with Michelle, and yet - there’s nothing official on that front, either. „Oh, fuck off. Come on, let’s jump in before they start trading ammunition.“</p><p> </p><p>They go to bed buzzed out of their heads, many, many drinks later. Peter can barely keep himself upright, towards the end. Says goodbye to everyone, hugs Wanda, clumsy, sincere, and gives Bruce a wet, sloppy kiss to the cheek, before stumbling to his room. Still, he has trouble falling asleep. Keeps turning, tossing. Replaying. He’d been sure, for a minute there, that Tony’d wanted him to kiss him. Shit. He’s too drunk, now. Too dizzy to be sure. To catch his thoughts, hold onto them. He lies back, and thinks of those hands on him until he drifts off into a light sleep.</p><p> </p><p>It’s still dark out, when he hears it. Something like a scream. <em>Tony</em> - it’s coming from Tony’s room. Peter is up before his mind can catch up, finds himself at Tony’s door. Tony is sat upright in bed and he’s shaking, sweat slicked curls plastered to his forehead. His breath is a rattle, fast and harsh. „Tony,“ Peter says, calmly, quietly, so he doesn’t startle the man. Still, Tony’s eyes whip around. They’re glassy, unfocused. Okay, Peter thinks, through an onset of panic. You’ve got this. You’ve been here, before, Peter. His approach is slow, gentle. „Tony,“ he murmurs, again, kneeling on the edge of the mattress, now, „you had a nightmare.“ But Tony doesn’t answer. Just keeps breathing like he’s been running. The sight of him, terrified, out of his mind with fear, breaks Peter’s fucking heart. Those wild, wild eyes, they slice him open. He’s wide awake in an instant. „Tony, come on. Is it okay if I touch you?“ And Tony looks mad, disoriented. He probably can’t tell if this is real, right now. Peter’s been there. Shaking himself from his worst moments, newly sharpened, over and over again. Highlight reels of terror. When it’s all so fucking real, and also, nothing is.</p><p> </p><p>After a while, he gets a terse nod. „Okay. Good. Listen, Tony, I need you to breathe for me. Can you do that? Real simple, just - in and out, see,“ and he takes the other man’s clammy hand, oh so gently, and puts it on his chest, over his shirt, takes a deep breath, then another, „just like this.“ And for a while, it’s just that. When the breaths he draws become a little less shaky, Peter removes Tony’s hand from his ribcage, takes it in his. „Come on, Tony, we’ve got to get you up and out of those clothes.“ It’s what Peter does, when the nightmares come. It’s good, to have steps. First, get out of the tainted environment. Second, you change your clothes, into something the naked smell of fear doesn’t cling to, still. He pulls Tony up by his hand, until he’s standing on his own two feet. Peter touches the hem of his shirt. Looks up into Tony’s eyes, a question in his own. Another tiny, tense nod. So he lifts the damp fabric off of his chest, his head. Tosses it aside. Pauses. „I’ll get you another. Take off those sweatpants for me, yes?“ He pulls an old shirt from a drawer, can’t seem to find a pair of pants, so he glances over to where Tony still hasn’t moved, naked and shivering except for a pair of boxers. Peter returns, helps him put it on. The sight of him’s unbearable. It might just burn the heart out of him.</p><p> </p><p>„Alright, Tony. It’s all about realizing you’re really here, now. I’ll get you something to drink,“ he explains to Tony in his gentlest voice, a tone fit for the dying, the fatally wounded, <em>fuck</em>, before sitting him on the couch. He’s done this for himself a million times before. It’s good, for him, too, to have these steps. To keep himself from losing his fucking shit, from from following this impossible fear down, down, down. So. The aftermath is all about sensory input, tastes and smells, textures. Anything grounding. Anything you can’t feel, when you’re dreaming. So he grabs some leftover can of soda from the fridge and rummages through the pockets of his jeans for his cigarettes, on a whim. Nothing to hit your senses like a nighttime cigarette, he thinks. And maybe, it’ll help Tony calm himself. He kneels in front of Tony, on the carpet. Hands him the soda and lights a cigarette. Tony drinks it, sip after sip, eyes closed. His shoulder’s lose a little of their tension. Relief floods Peter’s brain. Okay. This is good, he reminds himself. Extends the hand that’s holding the smoke, offers it to Tony, who takes it and whimpers a little, at the first drag. Peter wants to throw up, just a bit.</p><p> </p><p>Still, they don’t speak. Just keep passing that cigarette until they’re just sucking on the filter. Peter stubs it out on the empty can. „Another?“ Tony nods, again. There’s some more life to it, now. His face no longer ashen, frozen in fear. Peter lights a second, waits for Tony to take it on his own. Their fingers brush, and Peter shivers. Tony’s hands are cold as ice. Distantly, he is aware of how fucking angry he is. He’s raging, reeling with hatred. And Peter’s not a violent man, never has been. But he’s certain, there, for a moment, he’d tear them all apart, limb by sorry limb, for what they did to Tony. Anything not to be powerless against his torment, this agony.</p><p> </p><p>It seems impossible to comprehend: That there are things not even he can change, for Tony, no matter the size of this love he has, for him, no matter its weight, its graveness. To think: No one’s ever loved, like this, before, I’m sure, and still - it’s not enough, to ease your aches, to mend your bones. I wish it were. He wants to scream, to thrash, to summon gods and wage a war, burn cities to the ground. Wants, so badly, so fervently it feels he’ll burst with it, to be for Tony what Tony is for him. Wants, most of all, to beg: Let this be enough. Let me be enough, for him to have some peace.</p><p> </p><p>It’s unthinkable, to wonder if even this, this love to change the tides of time, this love that built the world anew, can’t tip the cosmic scales. To fear that no amount of pain, of blood, of tears will buy them peace. It should. He thinks it should. It can’t be too much, to ask for this, in return. To want to trade a little peace, for these unspeakable violences, these insurmountable pains. It’s a debt they’re owed, he thinks. Thinks of Tony, running, all his life and longer, still. Chasing, still, some semblance of salvation. Wants to put his fist through something.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, he wills himself to speak, to say: „Lie down for me, okay, Tony, on the rug.“ To think along these laughable lines: Smells, tastes, textures. The rough, coarse fabric will be good, to keep Tony in the now, he reminds himself. Pushes all other thoughts aside, with great effort. He owes it, to Tony, to keep himself sane, for now. „I’m going to go get something. If anythings up, you just call for me, alright?“ And he stumbles to his room, chest tight with immeasurable grief.</p><p> </p><p>It had taken him weeks to figure out what to get the man, for his birthday. Hadn’t been sure what would be considered an appropriate gift for the man who’d revived half the universe for you, mentored you and featured in most of your fantasies, growing up, whom you’re living with now, whose hand you’ve held - there hadn’t been much to go by. It seems laughable, now. The frenzy of it all. But he’d thought of the watch Tony had given him. The effort it must have taken. And he’d thought of the stories Tony had shared that night, of a happy childhood, dancing, with his mother who’s long gone, to tunes he’d never hear again.</p><p> </p><p>He’d had to consult Pepper of course. She’d told him that after his parents’ death, Tony hadn’t bothered to throw out or sell their stuff. Hadn’t been able to look at it for long enough to do either. He’d told the executor of the estate to put it all in storage somewhere, charge him with the costs and never, ever to tell him where it had been stored. It had taken quite some bribery, some awkwardness, trying to explain his relationship with Mr. Stark. He’s pretty sure he lied to at least two of the people he had to go through, if only by omission. Had informed them he wanted to retrieve some items from storage for their new apartment and let them fill in the blanks. The record player he bought, that’s new. But the records themselves - they’re Maria’s.</p><p> </p><p>Peter returns to the living room, shaken, shaking. He stumbles over his words, when he says: „I wasn’t sure, anymore, before. But uh, I thought this might be just the thing you could use, right now.“ And with that, he puts down the player, splays out the records on the fabric of the rug. Tony is quiet. Unmoving. „Peter,“ he starts, and it’s a choked up sob. When he blinks, his eyes are watery and there’s a tremor, in his lips. „That’s - thank you. I don’t know how to - thank you.“ Peter smiles. Thinks, Tony, this is nothing. Compared to what I’d do for you. Compared to what you’re owed. Says, instead: „Happy Birthday, Tony.“ It sounds pathetic, to his own ears.</p><p> </p><p>But they lie on the floor, with Maria’s music reverberating off the walls until it’s light out, until the city wakes beneath them. Through it all, Tony clutches his hand like a lifeline, like it’s the only thing tethering him to some sort of sanity. Peter knows the feeling. And maybe Peter can’t undo a lifetime of pain, can’t make Tony whole again, can’t force the stars to pay him what he’s owed, but he can hold his hand through his worst night, and think of things that grow, in spite. And hold on, to hope, despite himself. Think, watching the first rays of light paint shapes onto their skin, at least, they'll have another day.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. sensual politics</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Morning comes sooner than Peter would have liked, and it comes to him with a blinding headache that almost splits his skull in two. It’s the natural conclusion of the past few hours - too much to drink, too many cigarettes and much too little sleep. The groan he emits at his alarm, ringing with a terrible, vile sound, and really, has it always been this infuriating, gets him a groan from Tony, pained and hoarse, and a hand to his face. „Yeah, yeah, Parker, you’re hungover. You’re like, 20, and I’m like, what, entitled to a senior discount? Cool it on the noise, for god’s sake.“ Peter removes the hand, drops it to the carpet, and pats the other man’s chest, companionably. „Time to get up, anyway, old man. We’re taking Morgan shopping for a wedding outfit in like, three hours.“ Another groan, and it’s such a truly pitiful sound that Peter emphasizes, just a little. He heaves himself up, head spinning, and moves to the kitchen to brew them some coffee. He doesn’t crawl, but it’s a close thing.</p><p> </p><p>They meet again, an hour later, in the bathroom. Peter is lying on those cold, heavenly tiles, trying to cool down his aching body. „Nope, not happening. Up, I need a fucking bath. I smell like those awful cigarettes you smoke, a shower won’t do,“ Tony proclaims, and Peter looks up to find him halfway undressed, in nothing but those boxers he’s been wearing all night. Now, in the light of day, now, that they’re out of the woods, it’s a vastly different picture. Hums, only half listening, and imagines licking up that chest, that neck. Forgets to mention it’s the cigarettes Tony smokes, as well. „Peter, seriously. I’m old and achey. I need my bath.“ Peter can only blame the hangover for having melted away the last of his braincells when he mumbles: „Don’t look that old to me, Tones.“ Tony blinks at him, not giving him anything, waiting. Peter whines. „Just - can’t I stay here? You take your bath, and I stay here, and we have breakfast delivered. ’S a fool proof plan.“ And he’s kidding. Really, he is. Mostly, anyway. And yet - Tony opens the tap, and hands him his phone, coming to rest on the rim of the tub. „Fine. You pick. Think, like, carbs. Lots of them.“ Peter is - dumbfounded, really. Might be gaping, just a little. But that is just what they do.</p><p> </p><p>Peter, sits, propped up against the wall that’s facing Tony, drinking his coffee, eating cinnamon glazed donuts, while Tony rests his head against the edge of the tub, listening to him telling stories. Peter tries his hardest not to stare at Tony’s chest, not to notice the way his wet curls cling to his forehead. He’s mostly successful, until he isn’t. The man is naked. What does he expect Peter to do. He’s only human. Well - mostly human. He’s been tracing a droplet of water run from the other man’s temple, down that chin, that jaw like marble, down his throat, his chest, with his eyes, when Tony coughs, a little. Stares right into Peter’s face, left eyebrow raised. The embarrassment is as immediate as the flush that he can feel spread along his face and neck. It’s just - Tony has to know what he looks like, like this, half submerged in water. Tuke’s bathing boys, they pale, compared to this. Peter thinks young men, drowning, of shepherds, lured to death. He understands, he thinks. To die, for just a taste, of this: His nymph, his dryad, his Eurydice - he’d follow Tony, too, to river grounds, the gates of hell.</p><p> </p><p>A splash of water hits his cheek, startles him out of his daze. The look Tony sends his way is sheepish, teasing, but - soft. Understanding. It has Peter thinking of yesterday, how he’d been a little too drunk to stand, but not too drunk to think, <em>baby, read my mind</em>. The thought is alluring, terrifying. If there’s anyone he wants to be able to see him, truly, it’s Tony. He just prays that he’ll like what he sees. „Sorry,“ he mumbles, still a little dizzy. Tony shakes his head, mouths, all good, Pete. But Peter feels that gaze on him, again, again, leaving goosebumps in its wake. They talk until the coffee’s cold. He manages to make Tony laugh a laugh he’s never heard before. It’s high-pitched, almost a shriek. His nose bunches up, his head falls back. Peter barely fights the urge to swallow it right from his lips.</p><p> </p><p>When Peter wills his legs to stand, so he can change out of his filthy clothes, because it’s high time he did, really, how did he sleep in this, for fuck’s sake, is by the door, when a hand wraps around his wrist. He turns to look at Tony, knees instantly weak. Swallows. Tony smiles at him, that secret smile he loves so much, and says, simply: „Thank you, Pete. For last night. I mean it.“</p><p>Peter twines his hand around his, squeezes, once, twice. Stumbles out, heart in a staccato beat.</p><p> </p><p>At Peter’s insistence, they take the subway. He regrets it, instantly. Doesn’t want to admit it - he stands by public transport. It’s faster than taking a cab through those crowded New York streets. Better for the environment, too. But right now? It’s hell. His eyes hurt with the bright lights, the noise and smells overwhelm his super senses. In the beginning, he’d assumed he’d burn through the alcohol with extra speed, thanks to his enhanced metabolism. But as it turned out - spiders aren’t all too adept at metabolizing alcohol at all. His hangovers are just as long, as dreary as everyone else’s, but with the added intensity of superhuman senses. So, the subway - it’s pretty fucking awful, is what it is. What doesn’t help him is the way Tony’s attention appears to be focused solely on him. His head is swimming, already. Twirling around all that has happened, that almost happened between them, yesterday. Those headlight eyes on him, they have his skin tingle. Tony sighs, and takes off his sunglasses. Puts them on Peter’s nose in one swift motion. „You need ‘em more, kid.“ Peter moans in gratitude, and Tony’s hand twitches, just once.</p><p> </p><p>Their task is simple: Help Morgan pick something she likes, and something Pepper will not have to have photoshopped out of any wedding pictures. Morgan is a great kid. She’s incredibly smart and funny, determined and level-headed. Unfortunately, she is also eccentric. Naturally, Tony loves it. Peter is reasonably sure he’s only been asked to join to steer them clear of any tacky father-daughter outfits. Pepper had outright refused to get involved in this. Planning a wedding is headache inducing enough, she said.</p><p> </p><p>The look the shop assistant gives them makes him blush profusely. It’s fairly obvious what she thinks. And well, maybe he can see where she’s coming from. Here they are, debating outfits, planning, laughing. It’s domestic and dizzying, all at once. Morgan’s managed to get her hand on a truly ridiculous satin dress shirt. It’s red and flashy, and reminds Peter of that shirt Leo wears in Romeo and Juliet. And boy, does he remember Leo in that thing. So yeah, maybe. Peter inhales, rubs the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Maybe it does look sort of cool, or maybe they’ve worn him down. They’ll need a blazer, or some slacks. Or maybe she wants to wear a skirt. Now it’s just making sure he can get both of these nightmares to pick something subtle to pair it with. He’s caught Tony eyeing a bright red glitter blazer twice now. He will not face Pepper’s wrath. No chance in hell.</p><p> </p><p>It’s going okay. They’re getting there, without too much complication, when Morgan drags Peter over to the men’s section and starts pointing out suits for him to try. Peter raises his hands in defeat. „Morgan, honestly, I have more suits than I reasonably need, thanks to your dad. I’ll rewear one.“ And of course this has Tony smelling blood. „Oh, what’s the point of coming if we’re not even allowed to buy you stuff, Pete?“ Peter protests, but is shot down by the suggestion of getting an entirely custom tailored suit, instead, so - he concedes. Morgan wants them to match. Peter begins to fear for his well-being.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe - just maybe, he’s been too hasty with his judgement. They look good. Really good. In fact, it’s hard to focus on anything but how good they look together. They’re matched, sure. But it’s less boyband shooting a music video than he feared. It’s a simple, chic way of saying - look: We belong together. And well, fuck. The suit he’s wearing is a beautiful maroon. He’d never have picked it for himself - but he looks really fucking good. The deep red makes the highlights in his hair shine golden, his eyes look amber. Tony is next to him, in a deep charcoal, double breasted number, wearing a light, burgundy sweater underneath. He wants to rip it off his shoulders, wants to push him up against that mirrored wall. It’s like that coat, but better. All he can think is how everyone will look at them and think, oh, they belong together. And they do, don’t they? In a way.</p><p> </p><p>The assistant downright melts at the sight of them. Peter emphasizes. Tony insists on snapping a picture of them, to get their outfits approved. Apparently, he wants to please Pepper, after all. To fit them into the frame, he pulls Peter in further, until they’re touching arms, and wraps his hand around his waist. It should be nothing, by now. Those mindless touches, the thoughtless possessiveness. But paired with how clearly they look like a couple, with the night they’ve had. It makes Peter’s lungs constrict painfully, for a second. Tony remains oblivious. But Morgan, god fucking damn it, eyes him, steely, calculating. Knowing. Okay, fuck, yeah. She’s Pepper’s daughter, for sure.</p><p> </p><p>He sort of gets away with it. Morgan doesn’t bring it up. But she keeps giving him wholly unimpressed glances, too exasperated for a ten year-old, in Peter’s humble opinion. He avoids her gaze and prays she won’t say anything to Tony. The idea is downright daunting.</p><p> </p><p>The thing is this: Peter knows what he saw, on that balcony. Or - he knows what he thinks he saw. And he guesses that those two might not be the same thing, at all. He keeps jumping from one conclusion to the other in a way that makes him feel unsteady. He knows two things, for certain: He wants Tony. And if he’s right about what happened there, what he thinks all those glances and touches may mean, then Tony maybe wants him too. It’s - it’s a big if. Massive, in fact. And - there’s not really any way to find out, is there? He can’t just <em>ask</em> the man.</p><p> </p><p>This thing they have - it’s good. And god, does Peter wish, just a little, to be fifteen again. If only this, this dance, this limbo, were enough. To be in love, for the sake of it, to ask for nothing. But maybe it had never been that easy. He thinks of Carson’s eros, the absent presence of desire. Perhaps, it’s always this, to love, a suspended moment of living hope. A blow that never lands. Wonders how she meant it. If hope’s a threat to her, as well. He’s twenty one and still, he knows it all, the treachery of hope. And Peter knows he’s messed up, he does. But hope’s a hollow thing, it is. He’s lost enough to know - it haunts you, hope. Its slow burn ache, the things it breeds. It’s best, he’s found, to bet on bones. </p><p> </p><p>And really, it’s a prisoner’s dilemma. Being damned if you do, damned if you don’t. And impassivity, it’s a choice in itself. Peter knows game theory, enough to know there’s nothing to know, no strategy to follow, no rules to adhere to. It’s choosing, then, to speak or die, and waiting, for the storm to hit. He supposes there’s a thrill to uncertainty. Why else do people play, at all. It’s just - to him, it’s terror. The thrill, it’s terror. He doesn’t know the game they’re playing, doesn’t know what Tony’s in for. The stakes of it. There’s not a gambler’s bone inside his body, not anymore. If there’d ever been, they’re ashen now. Fear’s burned them out of him. And Tony, he’s holding his cards close to his chest, and Peter, well - he fears he’ll overplay his hand, and lose it all, be called on his bluff. He’s no longer sure. If he has it in himself to be brave.</p><p> </p><p>The wedding approaches and brings with it a whole lot of chaos. Pepper asked Tony to be her best man sometime around Christmas. Tony had been touched. Had gone a little teary-eyed, in fact. But with less than a week to go, Tony’s been on edge. It’s his speech. He’s been trying to write the damn thing for days now, to no avail. It’s been driving him a little insane, Peter thinks. He keeps scribbling down sentences, crossing them out, shouting in frustration. It might be a little more amusing if only Peter didn’t have this fear, this notion, that maybe, there’s a reason it’s so hard for Tony to find the words - to send her off, for good. Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? One last goodbye, before she goes.</p><p> </p><p>Peter feels unsteady, throughout those days. It’s stupid, really. He’s jealous and he shouldn’t<br/>
be. He loves Pepper, dearly. Refuses to turn her into some sort of obstacle, even in his head. Perhaps, it’s this: It’s been less than a year, since Tony came back. And he’d come back to find himself divorced, his wife moved on. And he’d been fine, just fine, and still, he is and - most likely, it’s denial. He’s pushed and pushed and pushed away, and now it’s come right back around, to find him, back against the wall. So yes, it’s this, he thinks - he’s learning, now, she’s really gone.</p><p> </p><p>Mostly, he can reason with himself. He owes the man a little faith, at least. But there’s that part of him, the ugliest, the cruelest, that keeps on taunting him with it, regardless. You fucking fool, it sings, you never had a shot at all.</p><p> </p><p>He’s sitting on the other end of the couch, watching Tony wrinkle his forehead in frustration. Not the good kind, he notes. The challenging kind. Just plain frustration. „Tones, you’re not going to get anywhere pressuring yourself like that. What’s the issue, anyway?“ And okay, maybe he’s a masochist, or just plain delusional. If he’s right - it’s not like Tony will tell him, now.</p><p> </p><p>Tony huffs a breath, raises his hands in surrender. „I don’t even know, kid. It’s like - what was I thinking, saying yes. What could I possibly have to say about love that’s of any value, to anyone?“ Peter raises his brows, giving the man an unimpressed stare. Tony winces, sits up a little straighter. „I mean it, Peter. Look at my track record. The one relationship I sort of made work was with, well, Pepper. And I mean, looking at why I’m giving this speech at all, that didn’t exactly end up working out.“ It’s too close to home, that one. Feels a little bit too much like an admission. So Peter, he - he can’t help himself.</p><p> </p><p>„But that’s different, isn’t it? Being in love, and making a relationship work. Sure, it works out, or it doesn’t, but you love someone, you just do.“ Tony tilts his head a little. „Okay, fair point. But still - I don’t know shit about love, do I?“ And Peter, he - he doesn’t know what he’s doing, not at all, doesn’t know what he’s asking, or maybe he does, but his skin is on fire, lungs thick with humiliation, chest tight with anger - so he fixes Tony with a stare, and asks: „Don’t you?“ Tony halts at that, looks caught, for a breath or so, then looks away. Whatever he thought he saw in there - it’s gone before Peter can grasp it. „I don’t know, Pete. With Pepper - I really did love her. Love her, still. But - not the way she loves Carlota, I think. The way they love each other. Not in the real deal kind of way.“ Peter swallows, throat dry. „Okay - then what’s the difference, there? That’s a start.“ And Tony doesn’t look at him, won’t fucking look at him, and Peter wants to force him to, needs him to, but he doesn’t move, not one bit. How do you know, he means. That there’s something more. A real deal. What’s the reference, Tony? He feels mad for asking, like a goddamn lunatic, spelling out his desire word by pathetic fucking word. Still - he can’t stop. Can’t back down. He’s upset, he realizes. He got an answer. Even one he wanted, sort of. And yet, he feels like he’s learned something he didn’t want to know at all. Tony doesn’t even realize, does he? What he’s doing to Peter.</p><p> </p><p>And he thinks, <em>Tony, for fuck’s sake, don’t break my fucking heart. Not like this. Look me in the eye, at least.</em> The man has the audacity to nod, like something’s settled, when it isn’t, not at all, and Peter feels his eyes burn, brim with tears. Can feel his skin go taut with shame, with something like surrender. He gets up, steps out onto the balcony. Lights a cigarette and breathes. It’s - god, it’s stupid. Of course Tony loves him. He has to, in a way. The real deal, he’d said. A blood oath with the universe - that real enough for you, you<em> fuck</em>?</p><p> </p><p>He feels the other man’s gaze on the back of his neck. It takes a while, some bustling in the living room, the kitchen. Tony joins him, something apologetic in the way he carries himself. Something small, something secret. They do not speak, at first.</p><p> </p><p>It starts to rain. Peter is lost, right then. The rain keeps hitting him, cold drops on fiery skin, stretched taut with things unspeakable. He thinks, oh Tony, don’t you know? This is it. A drip of cool on scorching skin, to think, with you, it’s quiet. To live, in spite, to do it well. Something to stay. To see and <em>stay</em>. The look on Tony’s face - he smiles, like understanding. Does Tony understand? He must. Low level light, those little leaves like crushed up stars, glowing with the wetness, glimmer bouncing off of them like liquid light. We all know love, one way or other.</p><p> </p><p>And oh, does Peter think. Perhaps the themes do stay the same. That's Didion, isn't it? The night, it soothes an age old itch for things transcendental. Like this, he thinks, we will return to innocence. Those nights had come long before they did, and come they will, long after. We all know nights, know low light loves. </p><p> </p><p>„You’re right, you know. It’s just, this thing - I feel pathetic, waxing on about love, when all I know is how to ruin it. It seems foolish, to want at all.“ And Peter smiles, a solemn smile. „I think you’re better than you think. At love.“ You are, you know. You mend my bones, just like that. „It’s just this pattern. I think oh yes, I’ve got it now. And then it comes back, crashing down.“ Peter huffs a laugh. „You know, I think - the real deal things, they have a way of sticking around.“ Or coming back, he thinks, heart hammering. Through death, through chance.</p><p> </p><p>When Peter goes to light another cigarette, he finds his pack empty. Tony smiles, pulls another pack from his pocket. There you go, he says. And smiles. You do, he thinks. You know. Don’t you?</p><p>But he keeps quiet. Lets the rain melt on his skin and watches Tony, writing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi kids! I hope you enjoy this one. The references in this are to British impressionist Henry Scott Tuke, Anne Carson's beautiful words and Joan Didion's Slouching Towards Bethlehem.</p><p>If you're interested, here's Didion's text, including the quote I used here: https://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2017/06/didion/</p><p>The nymph references I based mostly on a painting by Henrietta Rae that I'm obsessed with. It's called "Potamides". Potamides are a sub category of water nymphs in Greek mythology that are said to be incredibly wise and capable of bestowing others with poetic talents and wisdom, however they are said to be hostile towards young men, luring them to death by drowning them. Hence the reference.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. 'cause I knew everything when I was young</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Kids. I only have one request: Listen to Phoebe Bridger's "I Know The End" whilst reading this. </p><p>And tell me what you think - I think you may have been waiting for this one...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Miraculously, it’s a clear, warm day. The heavy rains and windy cold of the last few days have vanished, leaving in their wake a beautiful, bustling day, replete with clear skies and brimming with a sense of arrival, of things, falling into place. And of course it is. Leave it to Pepper to pick even the perfect day to get married. Peter wonders, briefly, what it is about her - what bestowed her with this uncanny grace, this unshakable put-togetherness. When he tells Tony, he laughs. „You know, I’ve been wondering for years now. I honestly think it’s just strength of will. Even the changing of the seasons doesn’t stand a chance.“</p><p> </p><p>So, everything is calm. Peter doesn’t fucking trust it. There’s something, in the air. Something looming, treacherous. Still, he goes about his day as though he can’t feel a prickle on the back of his neck. Sense something wicked, some inevitable doom. He spends the morning in the library, mapping out a new research proposal. For lunch, he meets Tony in Brooklyn, telling him all about the progress he’s made, the theoretical model he’s developed. Afterwards, they head home, get changed, and take the car to the venue upstate. Tony is nervous. Buzzing like a live wire, ranting on and on and on about who to avoid, who to avoid when drunk, fidgeting with the radio buttons, shifting, until Peter gently pries his hand away. He takes his hand and squeezes it, just once. Connects his phone and starts a playlist, to give them something to do. It will be best, he’s figured, if they get some of this restless current out before they arrive, lest the man resorts to drinking to calm his nerves. The look he receives is fond, a concession - <em>I know what you’re doing and I’m grateful, you little shit,</em> it says. He grins back widely, recklessly. Sings along theatrically, head thrown back. Tony shakes his head a little, but he joins in for the chorus. Sings loud and off-beat, fingers drumming onto the steering wheel. Peter laughs, a careless thing. He turns up the volume until he feels the bass in his bones, and smiles, and smiles, and smiles. It doesn’t quite chase away the unease sitting heavy in his stomach. But he tries.</p><p> </p><p>The location is remote, secluded - so they drive, and drive, through winding roads, lined with somber woods, with misty fields. It’s beautiful in a way that makes his chest ache with something hollow, something bottomless. Like if he fell, he’d just keep falling deeper - pulled in by some primeval force, held quietly within those hallowed grounds. He’s never quite understood the appeal, before. Peter, he - he’s wary of all things holy. Suspects trickery in things divine. And yet, he gets it now. With Tony by his side, singing and smiling and driving, those eyes on him, those hands in his, skin consecrated where they touch - he gets it. It occurs to him, abruptly, like a jolt, some sick and sacred sign from above, that they could just keep driving. The two of them, like this. Can see it, clear as day, just them on endless roads, roads leading them along these brutal scenes, those profane, holy grounds, the windows down, a soothing breeze, the stars you see, only out here. For a breath, he’s wild with it, this urge to keep them in this moment, to be in motion, eternally, to be uncertain, now and always. God. Because the air is thick with it, this sense of culmination. He thinks of New York streets, a woman, screaming as they passed her by, a sign in hand. The end is near, it said. It’s true, he thinks. The end - it’s here.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe Tony feels it, too. Perhaps it’s why his hands won’t halt their movements, why he’s rattling, rustling, in his seat. Perhaps it terrifies him too, to drive headfirst, to the abyss. The deep dark skies around them sing to them of prophecies. A wind picks up. It feels like an omen. There’s many things, he finds, he’d like to know, before they go. Does Tony know where it is they are going? Does he have an idea? Do you, Tony, he thinks. Thinks: Are you scared?</p><p> </p><p>And: Were they enough? The things we suffered. Do they surmount the sins that paved the way, the promises we made, the sacrilege in dust? This oath we made in blood, the scars it left behind. Is it enough, to buy some semblance of salvation? Our souls, sweetheart, were they saved or sold, with this?</p><p> </p><p>If this is it, are we forgiven, if this is judgement day, do we confess, repent, or do we go down ablaze.</p><p> </p><p>Tony turns his head to face him, briefly. Like he can’t help it and can’t bear to. Like Peter’s something bright, unspeakable. Like his gaze is something dirty, something foul. Like he’ll wreck him, with just that look. Peter chokes on it, this sudden certainty that this will haunt him: Tony’s smile, the lines around his eyes, the ease with which he turns, more instinct than thought. His teeth burrowed in his lips, his hair like rippling silk, a stray curl above his brow, a brush stroke in oil. The ruthlessness with which he misses this, still in this car. He doesn’t want to miss Tony when he’s still right here. And yet, he does. Something says - <em>you’re running out of time</em>, and Peter thinks, <em>I know, I know.</em></p><p> </p><p>He fights a sudden urge to look over his shoulder, to stare into the face of darkness at their heels, but he knows there’s nothing there. The horrors that they dragged into this world with them, crawling on their hands and knees, out of darkness, death - they’re nameless, faceless things, inside. There is no place for them to hide, from all the things they can not say. Nowhere to turn, at all, when danger lies within. Instead, he looks at Tony. Always at Tony. And Tony looks right back, brows furrowed. He’s seen this look before, just once. He never did forget it. The first and last time Tony’d looked at him like this, like his fucking heart was breaking, Peter died. His blood runs cold, at this. Whatever Tony sees, right then - it has him steel his shoulders, relax his spine, roll the windows further down. „Come on,“ he says, tone carefully light. „This thing has excellent ventilation. Light us a cigarette, yeah? We look like we need it.“</p><p> </p><p>And so Peter lets the wind run through his hair, breathing in the fumes that fill his chest. It helps with it, that hollow hunger. He laughs, a little reckless. Thinks, <em>baby, let’s go down swinging</em>. Tony gestures for him to pass the smoke, and Peter leans over the console to put it between his lips. Tony shivers when his fingers graze his lip, eyes him, a little wild. „Eyes on the road, kid,“ Peter drawls, joking, but his heart picks up, regardless. Tony smirks, languidly, a Cheshire Cat thing, and winks at him: „Yes, sir.“ When Peter goes to retract the cigarette from between Tony’s lips, he gets a bite to his finger in return. Peter blushes profusely, swallows, hard. He’s painfully turned on in an instant. His hand shakes, just a touch. Tony exhales, slow and sensual, a cloud of smoke wafting from his mouth, and Peter wants to suck it straight from his lips.</p><p> </p><p>When they finally pull up to the venue’s parking lot, Peter stumbles out of the passenger seat, his knees weak. He catches his reflection in the car window. It tells him two things: Their impromptu smoke wrecked what had already been a volatile hair situation. And that there is a devastating flush to both his cheeks. His eyes, they glisten, glassy. He couldn’t be easier to read if he tried. He breathes. Thinks, one thing at a time. Puts his hands into his hair. It seems a little hopeless, in all honesty, those strands all windswept, messy, sticking out to one side. Cursing, he attempts to smooth it down - to no avail. Somehow, he’s making it worse. Tony touches a hand to his back, light. Electricity sizzles down his spine. „You need a hand there, kid?“ Peter sighs, and nods. He knows when to admit defeat. Tony slaps his hand to the hood of the car: „Sit.“</p><p> </p><p>He sits. It’s fine. There’s nothing to it. It’s just Peter, sitting on the hood of Tony’s car, looking anywhere but at the man that’s standing between his legs, hands in his hair. And if it has his lungs constrict, his heartbeat give out for a breath - then who will know, except for him. And Tony, maybe. He might just feel it all, with how his hands are on his skin. One is on his chin, tilting it for proper access. The other one’s combing through his messy strands, nails scratching on his skin, a little, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It’s - it’s sinful, really. A moan escapes his throat. Tony swallows, hard. Peter’s eyes flutter open, on instinct. Their faces are close enough for him to smell the cigarette they shared in Tony’s breath. Tony lets the hand buried in his hair fall down to his collarbone, mumbles: „Looking good, kid.“ The thumb on his chin strokes along his jaw, just once. Peter licks his lip, hypnotized. Those headlight eyes, they have him freeze right there, a deer, caught in their stare. He moves in, an inch. Another stroke, that thumb a whisper, a flutter - Tony’s shaking, just a little. It feels monumental, to Peter. An earthquake, the ground, cracking open. And then - he hears Wanda call out to them, voice joyous, from across the parking lot. Tony pulls away as though he’s been caught. Peter misses his hands on him in an instant.</p><p> </p><p>The reception is beautiful, chairs and candles stacked onto the patch of grass that’s framed by all the those trees - stoic, severe, older than any one of them. They mingle, making pleasantries over champagne flutes, get separated, along the line. And still - he feels those eyes on him. They draw him in, make sure he never strays too far. If only he couldn’t feel his heart right in his throat. Perhaps then he’d know, what to do with all this.</p><p> </p><p>When a freckle-dusted boy - Will, he said, when Will had walked up, it took him just a beat too long to connect the dots. It’s flattering, sure, and he seems nice enough, but - it didn’t occur to him that he was being propositioned, at all, because, well - the idea that Peter’s available is honestly quite laughable. So far removed from the reality of it he’s sort of forgotten that to anyone else, it might seem like he was. But god. That ship had sailed, eons ago. Still, he feels bad, for letting him go on for this long. Doesn’t quite know how to shoot him down, now, without embarrassing him. So when he asks, and, are you here with anybody, he only half expects it. Doesn’t really know what to say. He takes a breath too long to answer, words caught in his throat, but then, there’s a hand on his waist, a distinct voice, chuckling, just a little. „He is, yes. With me.“ Peter didn’t even notice Tony coming up to them, is rendered speechless for a moment longer. Then, he gives the boy - Will, yes, Will - an apologetic smile and waves him off. Once his blonde head has disappeared into the crowd, he gives Tony a look. Tries so, so hard, not to choke, this time: „I’m here with you?“ A blink, a blaze of reckless heat in Tony’s gaze. His throat goes dry. But then, the man, he says, so goddamn casual: „Aren’t you?“ And well. Peter supposes that he is. This time, his blush stretches down his neck, down his chest. Peter isn’t sure what game it is they’re playing. If Tony means it. Thinks, this hope a savage thing behind his ribs, <em>please do</em>. Please mean it.</p><p> </p><p>He declines the champagne, after that. Thinks maybe - just maybe, he’ll want to be sober for this, later.</p><p> </p><p>They stand there, then, side by side, Tony deep in conversation with a man whose name Peter has forgotten. His senses flood with the sensations, small and big, of Tony, by his side. His voice, a little rough, smooth like smokey velvet. That hand, warm on his shoulder. He thinks, a little dazed, head swimming with this fever, surely, this will leave a mark. It has to, with the gravity of it. There’s music and champagne, the murmur of a dozen conversations, swirling, simmering. It adds to it, this feeling - things coming to a head. Peter is restless, ravenous, his spine alight with reckless hunger. He sees Aurora, waving. Michelle had gotten sick last minute, and texted Peter with instructions to make sure her girlfriend wouldn’t feel alone, tonight. Peter is happy to oblige. To have a reason, there, to slip away. He needs a minute, maybe ten, to make sense of this slow burn thing, this ache. The thing that’s spilling into the air between their bodies, heavy, heady. Peter has to lean over, a little, to make himself heard. Gets up onto his tiptoes, puts a hand to Tony’s back, and goes to murmur right into his ear, to drown out another bout of laughter to their left. „I’ll go say hi to Aurora, for a sec.“ And Tony - he shivers. Short and sweet, unmissable. Peter takes a breath. It’s - dizzying. He goes mad with it, a little, drunk on this sense of power surging through his veins, hears himself chuckle, once, still right next to Tony’s ear. It’s dark, bemused. He hardly recognizes himself in it. Grins a little, something devious, and then, before he can change his mind, he presses a kiss to the skin behind the other man’s ear, open-mouthed, and slips away. He has - no idea what he’s doing. At all. But if Tony wants to play, he’ll play.</p><p> </p><p>The ceremony begins with a gentle breeze. It feels as though a spell’s been cast: The flicker lights around them wrap the air in something transcendental. Peter, for all his rationality, his scientific mind - he’s soft at heart. So, the minute he sees Pepper, walking down the aisle like something out of myths, radiating with an unbridled joy that feels divine, downright sacred, her glossy hair cascading down her back, like liquid fire against the deep green scene, her champagne dress, Tony on her arm, something out of prophecies, Herophilos, Aeneas, those devastating Aphroditean offsprings, a prince, a prophetess - he feels his eyes begin to burn with tears. The look on Pepper’s face, Carlota’s, all incredulous adoration, is a gut punch of a thing. And Tony, well, he’s a mess. If there’d been any doubt at all, regarding the sincerity of his support for the two of them - it would have vanished, by now. He’s glowing with it, really. It doesn’t make not crying any easier. And by the time they kiss, illuminated only by those countless candles, the stars above, a quiet rustle in the trees - Tony is crying, and it tips Peter over the fucking edge, as well. He’s sobbing, grossly sincere, and Wanda grips his hand, her tears silent, poised.</p><p> </p><p>Afterwards, he claps Tony’s hand, tight, squeezes. He’ll pull himself together in a minute. Right now, it’s all a bit much. He’s high on this emotion, this awful fucking happiness - this raw sort of sadness you feel for feeble things, beauty that makes you tremble. Violent delights, so grave, so elemental, they threaten you with loss, the second they begin. And Tony smiles that private smile, the one that will remain, and pulls him to his side, a hug with shaking limbs, lets Peter put his face against his throat and holds him so their bones won’t give way to the cruel tides of time. Unbidden, Peter thinks of tragedy, its habit of striking only in the best of times. Fate - it holds no promise to him, but one of pain. He’s only ever known it to be the most cruel of kings. And fortune, he thinks, it may favor the brave, but its gifts - they’re curses in disguise.</p><p> </p><p>Halfway through dinner, Aurora gives her toast. To family, she says, that grows anew from things shattered. To love that’s known loss, and tries, again, regardless. To happiness, well-deserved, Carlota, and to Pepper, for taking care of her aunt, who’s taken care of everyone else, all her life. She tells them all of how her mother died, her dad, unable to get out of bed. The aunt that stayed, stepped up, made her the woman she is, today. And god, does it hit home, and so Peter cries, again, a little more dignified, and Tony rests his hand on the nape of his neck, pressing soothing circles into flesh. He wants to pull away, crawl closer. Tony, he thinks, I think this is the end.</p><p> </p><p>It takes some time, after, for everyone to collect themselves. So Tony beckons him over to a dimly lit spot behind a big, old tree. Pulls out a cigarette, and then another. Passes one to Peter, hands brushing for a blink. The way he holds his body up and in, as if to shield himself from some invisible blow - it has a dark, dark thing bloom in Peter’s chest, the pit of his stomach. A filthy thing. He wants to ask, but doesn’t. Can’t help but think of things that loom, of running out of time. If this is it, he thinks, are we forgiven? Baby, what’s the score?</p><p> </p><p>He wishes he were wrong. About this end, ahead. But Tony looks at him, and he is wrecked, trepid, terrified. His gaze portends calamity. He’d give it all, to have it fade. It doesn’t. Tony drinks him up like it’s the last time that he’ll get to, most desperate, his hunger. Out here, in the low light, there’s an unconcealed voraciousness to him. He looks like he wants to eat Peter alive. To swallow him whole. And if he wants to wreck him, then Peter will let him. The things he’d let him do to him - there aren’t any names, for them. He wants to hand his body over, an offering on this altar made of dust and dirt - just this once, before they go. Does Tony know the end? If this is it, he thinks, then tell me. Don’t just let me go. If this is the end, I have to know. The smoke burns its way through his lungs, seeps along some unspeakable fear that turns his bones to ash, leaves him charred. He feels - laid bare, stripped down to just this dread, mind alight with blazing fire, feels a fever grip his skin. He goes numb with it. Oh god, he thinks. If this is it - He goes to speak, but there are no words. What can he say, if this is it? What final words could be enough. All he can say, all he can find, within himself, to say, is this, his name, so vast with all the things it means, so miniscule, against it all: „Tony, I-“ His voice, it breaks, on this. And Tony shakes his head, just once, and says, heel grinding on the ground on top of the butt of his cigarette, not looking back: „Time for my speech, I think.“</p><p> </p><p>Peter’s sick with fear. Stumbles to his seat, blind and deaf with it, the terror. He watches Tony walk up towards the mic. He moves with grace, intent - a soldier’s stance. Something defiant. A man about to walk a path he’s seen, already. A man who knows his end, and goes towards it, still. Peter watches him as he draws a breath, stands up straight. Peter thinks of Tony, years ago, that look on his face, before - The last look on his face, the last he’d thought he’d see. It’s unbearable. For a breath, Peter thinks he might throw up, right here, by candle light. And then, he starts.</p><p> </p><p>„You know, when Pepper asked me to say something, I sort of thought she was joking. I doubt it’s every day an ex-husband gets to give a toast at his ex-wife’s wedding.“ There’s a round of laughter, at that. Pepper rolls her eyes, a little. „But since Pepper having been married to me is, at best, a foot note in her story, I think it’s safe to say I’m here in vastly different a capacity. And still, it’s odd, I think, for me, to talk of love. If my reputation is to be believed, I’m most likely to give you a cautionary tale. So who am I, to tell you anything at all, about love?“</p><p> </p><p>He smiles, self-deprecating. „A friend of mine told me of this quote, once. About a world not made of love, but need against need, with everyone at cross-purposes, everyone to blame. And I might not be an expert at love, but I am an expert at this. Cross-purposes and blame. Need against need. And I think maybe, that’s the gist of it. Of love. When those line up, by chance, those needs. When you find something so simple, amongst this awful mess that’s life, this maze of blame, of purposes. Something so big and large and beautiful it’s the only simple thing. A simple thing, a certainty. Something to make sense of it, this life, with all it’s ambiguity, those million moral crossroads.</p><p> </p><p>In life, you rarely know, even in the end - and trust me, I would know - if any of it was right. The steps you took, the paths you chose. It’s grays and grays. And love, I think, is this, at last: To know not you were right, but that you’d get it wrong, again, to get to this. That’s all there is to it, I think. A little peace, along the lines. For the good and evil, too, the ones who’re right, those who are wrong, the righteous and the cowards, for those who’ll never know which one they were, and even for the worst of us, there might just be some peace.</p><p> </p><p>And Pep, it’s no secret that I think the world of you. That I wish you all the happiness a life can hold, maybe even more. And you deserve it, truly. I might not know the kind of man I am, but this I know: Among us all, you’re one of the best. God knows you’re right, most often, too. You got there first, after all. You always were the smarter one. I didn’t get there, in one life time. Had to come back around, to learn. That no matter how much we wish that things were easier for those we love, there’s nothing we can do to make them. That in the end, fate cares so very little for the good. That in the end, it owes us nothing. The needs line up, or they don’t. So Pep, baby, the things I wish for you are endless. But I can’t promise you anything, but this: You got it right, at last. I guarantee you this: The real deal kind of love, of course, a quiet place to breath, in-between. One simple thing. A hand to hold through your worst night. Some clarity. A path, a place.“ And then, Tony lifts his head, a little, and looks at him, face open and unguarded, it’s awe and terror, all at once - „Some god-forsaken peace.“</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The tension he’s been feeling, an almost manifest thing, dense enough to touch, to grasp, bare-handed, halts along with his heartbeat, then. And breaks. Cracks open with a brutal force. The walls of Jericho, they’re crumbling. The thing, it seizes up, one final, heart stopping wave, and then gives way to something else - anticipation, Peter thinks. It’s anticipation, sizzling along his skin in electric waves, with an urgency he fears will have his body burst. He feels possessed, by light, by something secret, something divine. A faithless man, reformed, eyes open in the face of god, those whispers, visions of the sacred things that hide, somewhere in their bones. <em>Oh,</em> he thinks. <em>Oh.</em></p><p> </p><p>Afterwards, he gets swept up. He’s promised his first dance to Aurora, who’d bemoaned her lack of date with great displeasure. And yet, he barely hears her speak. His heartbeat in his ears, it drowns out all the rest. Oh, he thinks, again. Surely, this must mean just what he hopes it means. He twirls her around, mindlessly, and stops only when she does. He notices it, then - the song’s long over. The look she gives him is fond, if exasperated. „I’m assuming that was he first you heard of that. Judging by that look on your face.“ And - he nods, a little. The smile he gets is kind. She nudges him, a bit, and hands him off to Pepper to dance with her aunt, without another word.</p><p> </p><p>He can barely look at her, like this. With everything he took from her - how can he ask for this? And yet, she spins with her hands in his, gentle as her smile, eyes knowing, kind. Always so kind. She radiates a warmth, despite the night that’s wrapped itself around them. It’s her who speaks, just then. „And so we rest, at last,“ she murmurs. And Peter, he - feels like a goddamn fool. Surely, this is sacrilege - but still, he has to know: „You think he’s stopped? Running, I mean.“ God. And isn’t this just like him, with everything she’s given, asking her for more. Begging her permission, begging her to tell him he’s not seeing things. <em>The man I took from you,</em> he thinks, <em>I’m begging you, give him to me.</em> And Pepper smiles that ancient smile, a goddess, long forgotten, and Peter thinks, <em>I have no right, but god, I’ll die without him, here</em>, and - she has mercy on him. Of course she does. Pepper, with all her grace, that eternal poise, smiles her smile, and sets him free: „Yes, he has. He stopped the second he got you back, Peter.“</p><p> </p><p>The rest of the night passes in a blur. Peter barely registers any of it. Doesn’t find Tony again until he’s unceremoniously shoved into the back of their car by a very drunk, very affectionate Wanda. And there he sits, squashed in the backseat, right between her and Sam, Bruce in the passenger seat, dazed and weightless. They do not speak. But then, he looks up, purely instinct. Their eyes meet in the rearview mirror. It’s pitch black in the back of the car. Still, he thinks, there’s something there. In Tony’s gaze, there’s something. Cautious, apprehensive. And when he smiles, at last, it sparks along the air, between them. Half mad with it, this promise that they’ve spoken into the space that separates them, he thinks he might now know the end. They drop the other’s off, one by one, and still, they do not speak.</p><p> </p><p>Upstairs, the air is brimming with diffuse premonitions. Glances pass like lightning strikes, between them. One wrong move, Peter thinks, and we might ignite it. And perhaps it’s fitting: This thing right here was born by fire, and perhaps, to fire it will return. He’d let it burn, right now. Light the fuse, himself. Anything, to arrive, at last. It hardly matters, now. This place, their place, in space and time - it‘s not a place, at all. It‘s this: Some peace, some certainty. His skin, it feels too small, too tight. His words, they fail him. He doesn’t know where to begin. Where to start, with this. So, they have nightcap, in the living room. And still, there’s not one thing he can think to say. The enormity of this, this hunger, this epiphany, it’s - there are no words. And so, he doesn’t speak.</p><p> </p><p>Just swallows, throat dry as ash. <em>Okay,</em> he thinks. <em>To being brave.</em> And so he takes a step. And then another. He wants to know. He has to know. Has to, like he has to breathe, to eat. The hunger in his gut, this sordid, merciless thing - it’s something pre-conscious, visceral, unwavering. He’s but a vessel, a pawn to it. There’s nothing left to do but let himself do this. Before he drowns in it. He finds Tony’s eyes, and holds his gaze. It’s strangely easy, now. Maybe he’s simply run out of fear. Or maybe, this is <em>Tony</em>. For all they’ve lost, and all they’ve found, this thing he feels, for all its weight, its shape, its immeasurable heights and depths - it’s easy, in the end. The only simple thing. He’s done wondering. Because Tony lets him hold his hand, and he’ll sleep with Peter wrapped around him, he’ll stroke his head through hellish nights. He gave his life for his, he made this place for him, tore it from the void, the fabric of all there is. This impossible place. It’s all for him.</p><p> </p><p>Those fucking eyes on him - they‘re the only peace he‘s ever known. This place they‘ve made, it’s the only place he fits, in his entirety. There‘s a tenderness, here, in the space between the floorboards and walls. It’s a place, he knows, now, for the happy and the sad, for laughter and for terror. A space to let himself feel all that these years have done to them. For those garish, ghoulish creatures they‘ve become. Their broken down frames, their burnt out brains. Their clammy fingers, feral eyes. A place of light, for all their faults and failings, pried from those darkest places. To melt the shame off of them, this impossible guilt. He‘s sure of it - they‘ll learn to look with eyes that are kind. Mend the cracks in their weary bones. This is it, he thinks. This is where they‘ll learn to be tender. To forgive them all, these monstrous horrors. These wicked, wretched years.</p><p> </p><p>And that makes it so, so easy, in the end. He moves until he’s right there within reach, and puts his glass down onto the coffee table. Reaches for Tony’s, too, takes it from his hand (no resistance, as if he’d known, awaited), chugs the remainder of the whiskey in a single gulp, and sets it down right alongside his in one swift motion. And he steps in that much closer, until he feels they may be touching from head to toe, and he holds Tony’s gaze as he runs his hands across his chest, sure and steady. As he goes to pop the buttons of his shirt, one by one, his gaze unwavering. And he pushes shirt and jacket off in one move, hands on Tony’s shoulders, and then, finally, like the first rain after drought, there are hands in his hair, and Tony kisses him, like a blind man seeing the sun for the very first time. </p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. and I knew you'd come back to me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And here it is, kids. We're done. I'm almost reluctant to see this end, but I'm out of things to say, with this. I know the story's over - as much as I wish it weren't. But don't worry - I've tasted blood, and I'll be back for more. In fact, I've already got the outline set for another little thing for you. As always, tell me what you think. It's been a marvelous ride. Thank you.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is as though something’s snapped. Their clothes fall to the floor, the pieces into place. The world, once large and frightening, is reduced to only this: Those maddening hands in his hair, the way Tony exhales his name, voice hushed and trembling. He sounds as though he’s praying. The reverence with which he holds Peter close, like he’s something holy, something sacred. The care with which he holds his face between his palms - it would make the devil cry. And Peter thinks: Perhaps it had. His heart spills into his chest, at this - his Orpheus, his prophet. He cheated death, for this. This love to sway the gods, this grief. Those hands on him - they made this place, for them, to be. An impossible place, this eden. No road should have led them here. This path, not found, but made, against all odds, all reason.</p><p> </p><p>I never stood a chance, he thinks. Who else could compare? You tricked the stars for me, my love. The noise he hears himself make, it’s wet, almost a howl - it shakes him, to the bones. It’s reverence, made manifest. And Tony gasps, slots their foreheads close together. He says, „Peter, sweetheart, if you change your mind - you can.“ And still, his voice betrays his intent. So hoarse, so raw, he ought to be spitting blood, by now. Distantly, Peter thinks, I’d lick up every drop of it. Instead, he rasps, „No. God, no. Don’t stop.“ Begs, Tony, please, please, and Tony shudders at how he says his name, buries his head against his throat. A quiver in his voice, a breathy moan. „Okay,“ he forces out, „Okay, I won’t. I’ve got you, babe.“ And Peter, he sees stars, just then. Fuck. A groan, a gasp - and then he covers whichever piece of skin he can reach, his brow, his jaw, that tender spot behind his ear, with bruising, desperate kisses. Brushes his lips, his teeth over cheeks and throat, that chest, all in a haze. A curse from Tony, hands tugging at his hair. His head falls back - a mouth trails down his chest, teeth scraping skin, and Peter hauls him up for yet another kiss. It’s more of a pant, open-mouthed, needy, but the sound Tony lets out at the gesture, as if despite himself, makes his stomach drop. And so he tugs him in, and then they’re falling backwards, onto the bed, Tony’s body covering him head to toe. The other man’s head drops down to his chest there, for a sec. Like he needs to catch his breath, to let himself believe that this is happening. Peter emphasizes. It’s a lot. The only man he’s ever loved, who made the world anew, for him, he has his hands on him like touch alone will bring him some redemption. As if he’d rather die, than stop.</p><p> </p><p>And so he twines his legs around Tony’s back, knees bent back against his chest, and he draws him closer still, and he holds him by the back of the neck, forces him to look at him, to hear him, and he says: „Tony, come on. Come on, I need you.“ And he thinks Tony understands what he’s asking, because he pants as if shot, presses the flat of his palm to Peter’s chest and his hand is shaking, twitching. It’s a heady feeling, rendering Tony Stark a downright mess, so he puts his lips to his ear, neck straining, and he murmurs: „Come on, Tony. Please. Please, just - fuck me.“</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And Tony is shivering now, a full-body thing, and Peter loves it, loves him, so he tells him, again: „Tony, please. Come on, I mean it.“ So he does. And god - he knows what he’s doing. For all his talk, it’s Peter who’s barely coherent now. It’s a lot: Tony fucks him in hard, languid strokes, and he rolls his hips in a way that makes Peter’s vision give out, but most importantly it’s Tony and they’re so, so close. Tony Stark, who Peter never thought he’d get the chance to love, at all, and he’s inside Peter, and it’s so good, and so right, and Peter thinks he may come on the emotion alone - and when Tony strokes his face, eyes alight with awe, the touch light as a breath, he does.</p><p> </p><p>Afterwards, they’re lying next to each other, breaths heavy, facing the ceiling, when Tony straightens the arm that’s wedged between them, until his fingers are lightly grazing Peter’s chest, right above his heart, and he strokes over the sweat slick skin, once, twice, the movement sluggish and wobbly, wrist twisted uncomfortably, but he doesn’t seem to mind, as long as he gets to touch - Peter is taken under by a wave of fondness and he turns, flinging his arm across Tony’s waist, chin propped up on his sternum, and he grins up at Tony sheepishly. „Hi,“ he says. „Hi.“ Tony smiles back, the corners of his mouth curl in what looks like an effort not to break out in an incredulous grin. „So,“ Tony says, and he sounds so careful, so poised that Peter can’t help but stare. „That - happened.“ Peter snorts. „An astonishing observation.“ Tony swats his arm, a little, and still, he smiles. „You know what I mean. We should, um, probably talk. Clear that up. Since we’re, you know. Living together.“ And Peter takes a deep, long breath. He’d figured that Tony would understand - after that fucking speech - that Peter got what this would mean. But maybe - maybe there hadn’t been anything to understand, at all. Maybe Peter had gotten it all wrong. The idea has him recoil, internally. „Okay,“ he says, slow. „Then let’s talk.“</p><p> </p><p>They settle on the balcony, Peter in Tony’s shirt. He made a point of picking it, from on the floor. As if to say, go figure. And Tony doesn’t look at him, not anymore. It’s that much worse, after all this. He looks out into the city, a solemn look on his face. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from below a plant pot, edges crumpled, and offers Peter one. He takes it, silently. Tony’s taste still lingers on his tongue, his smell on Peter’s skin. The air is cold around them. Peter barely notices. The aftershock still burning through him like a wildfire. And Tony clears his throat, grabs his ankle, tenderly. „You have to know, by now,“ he says, voice careful, „how much I love you. I never hid it well - not for a lack of trying.“ And Peter shakes with it. How casually he says it, love. As though it doesn’t almost kill Peter, to hear him say it, now. „I - spent a lot of time thinking about how I shouldn’t. But I’m tired, Pete. I’ve spent a life time running. I’d like to stop, the second time around. I’ve payed my dues, I think. I hope. I -wasn’t sure, at all. I thought, look at all the kid has lost, because of you. You can’t take more from him, than this. I guess it took a while, to see. That no one’s taking anything from you, anymore. That we’d never get to the end of it, if we tried settling the debt. It was that thing that Strange told me. How if it’d been anyone but you and me, it wouldn’t have worked. It’s just - there’s nothing left to do. Just living, now. I’ve never wanted to, before, like this. It’s simple in a way it shouldn’t be. I look at you and think - I’d do it all again, like that, to get to this. And I get that that’s a lot. But we can take it slow. If you want to at all. There’s - no pressure. You don’t owe me a single thing. You get to walk away.“ Peter wants to cry, just then. To scream. To tear him open, rib by rib, to crawl inside, to make him see. Instead, he laughs.</p><p> </p><p>„Tony,“ he says, and fuck, he’s crying. His body threatens to burst with it, the words he wants to say, the thing he wants Tony to know. „I’ve been losing my fucking mind, since you died. I - I spent five whole years begging for a do-over. For some place where we’d get the chance to be in love, like this. I’m not walking away now, it’s - the thing you said, about peace. It’s that. There is no peace for me, when I’m not with you.“ It’s a lot and not enough, all at once. But maybe - maybe he doesn’t have to say it all, right now. Doesn’t have to chase this unbearable urgency, this sense of having to get it right, so this doesn’t slip through his fingers, again. Perhaps it’s still this, after all: This feeling that they might lose this, before he can make Tony understand. And maybe this is something he’ll have to learn - to let himself have something unsafe. Something precarious.</p><p> </p><p>And if there’s one thing worth the risk, it’s this, isn’t it? This tour de force of a feeling, this love to change the tides of time. And so he drapes himself across Tony’s back, puts his chin onto his shoulder. Kisses his neck, a soft, simple little thing. „I love you, Tony. I can’t begin to explain to you how much. Just - I’m in, if you are. For as long as you want me.“ And it’s true. It’s - terrifying, yes, but true - he’d die before he’d give this up, again. Tony breathes, a broken thing, and Peter thinks he hears a smile in it, the way he says: „Okay. Yeah, okay. Right back at you.“ They share another cigarette, another kiss, and Peter thinks, okay, yeah, okay. We’ll figure it out.</p><p> </p><p>Some days, Peter thinks - if only Strange would tell him, perhaps he’d know, if Tony gets to stay. But then - his therapist, Yolanda, she says, Peter, there’s no such thing as total control. There’s always going to be another layer, something you won’t know. He’d found her at Aurora’s insistence. She’s nice enough, if stern. He thinks she’s right, by now: The point is not to know, but to try, despite the fear. Now that he knows, for sure, that he’s not alone, in this, it’s easier. A chance not only to be happy, but to do the same, for Tony - there’s no risk great enough, not to try.</p><p> </p><p>And still, some nights he wakes, alone in bed, and is gripped by naked panic. Thinks, he’s gone, again. Oh god. But Tony never is. He finds him, always, never far, and holds him tight. Tony hugs him back, kisses his temple, clutches his hands. Never says a word. It’s not like he doesn’t know the shape of Peter’s fears. Not when they’re twin shadows to his own. Not when he kisses Peter twice, each time, before they part, three times, when he comes back.</p><p> </p><p>And then there’s night where Tony wakes, never alone, but soaked in sweat, eyes wild. But then they’ll share a smoke, a kiss, and listen to Maria’s songs. When Peter’s there, he’s found, Tony can fall back asleep. As long as he’s got one palm to his chest, to where his heart is beating, steady, alive. As long as Peter murmurs, right into his ear, that Tony, god, he’s here, he’ll never go again.</p><p> </p><p>Peter’s room turns into a study, a tiny little lab. Peter writes most of his thesis, there. Only leaves on days he truly can’t afford any distraction. There’s plenty, now, with Tony there. The months, they pass. He never ends up telling May. Never ends up having to. She takes one look at him, at dinner, and rolls her eyes. „You know,“ she says, „he’ll have to come to dinner, now.“</p><p> </p><p>He does. He’s terrified, to say the least. But all in all, it goes okay. May keeps her word. As long as you’re truly happy, Pete, she tells him. He is. With Ned, it’s a little more awkward. Whenever they hang out, he goes wide-eyed, moony. He’s yet to call Tony anything but Mr. Stark, but - it’s getting better, over time. It helps, Peter supposes, that when it comes to tech, there’s little those two don’t agree on.</p><p> </p><p>A few months in, Tony quits smoking. Peter learns about it only when they’re out for a late breakfast, walking home through the Bushwick streets, and Tony declines the cigarette he’s offered. Bemoans the fact, a little. Everything that’s happened, between the two of them, over some stupid Malboros - but Tony laughs, and says, „I don’t know, Pete. Don’t really need those, anymore, I think. I have the real thing now.“ And well, what the fuck is Peter supposed to say to that, to do, over this, but pull the man in for a bruising kiss, right then and there, on the sidewalk, the streets around them bustling with sounds of human life. Tony huffs a laugh, and pulls him in, by the lapels, kisses him again, again. They walk home, an arm slung over Peter’s shoulders. Back home, he pushes Tony up against the door before it’s even closed, all the way. They fuck on the couch, and it’s only after that Peter remembers he never ended up smoking that cigarette, at all.</p><p> </p><p>A picture of them, kissing, grinning, right down the street, gets published within hours. It’s a good picture, Peter thinks. Tony’s hair, all mussed up from the autumn wind and Peter, ridiculously, hopelessly enamored. They look really, really good together. Pepper is only mildly annoyed with them, really. Handles the publicity stuff rather well - because of course she does. Peter’s old roommate texts him, again. He forgets to reply, this time. Even the next Avengers press conference goes over rather smoothly. There’s some pointed questions concerning their difference in age. Peter smiles, all saccharine, and explains, calmly, that he’s been taking on downright apocalyptic threats for a good seven, eight years now. And if he isn’t too young to be saving the world, to die, saving the world, then surely, no one will say he’s too young to make this choice, for himself.</p><p> </p><p>For Christmas, Aurora gifts him a painting of the picture. It's downright unfair how good a painting it is. Is there nothing she doesn’t know how to do? They hang it in the entry way, right above a picture of the two of them, with Morgan.</p><p> </p><p>Around New Year’s, Peter quits, as well. He’s doing good. Better than good, most of the time. And sure, sometimes, he does really fucking badly. But - it’s good. Having this, some solid ground. A hand to hold, through the worst nights. He’ll never be the same again, but that’s okay. His life is his, again. A little makeshift, sure. It’d never fit this well, he figures, if it weren’t. He learns to be kind to himself, about that. There’s a difference, he finds, between a little messed up and ruined. For his birthday, Tony’d given him a book, this year - the Siken one. A nod to how they got here. There’s another line Peter thinks of, often, now, these days. <em>A gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.</em></p><p> </p><p>He’s circled it, for Tony, which made him cry, a little. Tony gets them a dog and Peter gets him a ring. (They both cry at that, a lot.) They name it Pep, much to Pepper’s chagrin. She’s not too mad at them, not really. Likes Pep too much, for that. When he tells May, she cries, as well. There’s lots of that, these days. Peter doesn’t mind. They’re happy tears, for once.</p><p> </p><p>They set a date for June.</p>
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